Read Online The Suspect - L R Wright by L. R. Wright - Free Book Online
Authors: L. R. Wright
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only lasted two years. Audrey was killed
in a car accident."
"Thirty years ago. You mean he was fifty-five before he got
married?"
"Yes."
"Why did he wait so long?"
"I really haven't the faintest idea." She sounded cool,
now. "Did you go to his wedding?"
"I hadn't any choice. My mother was still alive—it would
have upset her if I'd stayed away."
"You met his wife, then, and her brother?"
"I met Audrey. I don't remember meeting George. I remember
that she spoke of him with great affection, and that he gave her
away, but I don't remember him.”
"Did you see him this week, while you were in Sechelt?"
"No."
Alberg frowned, irritated. All this was very interesting, but what
the hell did it mean, if anything?
"Tell me about Audrey," he said.
"I only saw her a few times, over a period of a couple of
days. She was lovely.” Alberg could hear her smile. "Absolutely
a lovely person. Not so much in the way she looked, although she was
very pretty. It was more—oh, a kind of singing in her, if you know
what I mean." Alberg wished he could see her face. "I was
amazed that she was going to marry Carlyle—she was twenty years
younger—and that she behaved so fondly toward him, and seemed so
happy." She gave a bitter laugh. "But nothing lasts, does
it, Mr. Alberg? Two years later, she was dead.”
"Some things last, Mrs. Morris," said Alberg gently.
"You hated him, and that sure lasted, didn't it?"
She sighed. "I can't help you," she said wearily. "l
have no idea who could have killed him. You'll probably find it was
one of those senseless acts of—of random violence. There's a lot of
that, these days, isn't there?"
When he'd hung up the phone, he sat back with his feet up on the
desk and his hands behind his head.
His office was small, containing in addition to his desk and
swivel chair a filing cabinet, a large bulletin board, some
bookshelves, a deep black leather chair with an aluminum frame, and
next to it a small, scarred coffee table.
Maybe he'd try to get back out to Toronto later in the summer, to
see his parents, he thought. Maybe he could pry his daughters loose
from Calgary and take them with him.
He swung around in his chair to look at the photograph. He found
himself studying it intently.
They were young women in their late teens, standing in front of a
tall, smooth-trunked tree. Unsmiling, grave, they seemed to bend
slightly toward each other, like dancers. The girl with shorter hair
and larger eyes was deeply tanned; she stood behind her younger
sister, her right shoulder pressing lightly against Diana's left.
Diana, hair long and sleek, the color of taffy, faced the camera
almost straight on. Her head and neck and shoulders were aware of her
sister; she had an air of guarded protectiveness. They were
bare-armed, wearing dresses, and Janey's tan was very dark against
Diana's ivory skin. They looked straight out from the photograph,
straight into his eyes, and they weren't smiling. He had taken the
picture the summer before he left Kamloops. Had they broken into
laughter when the picture-taking was over? He couldn't remember. Or
had they turned their backs on him and walked away down a tree-arched
road into their own futures, abandoning him as he was about to
abandon them?. . .
He became aware of an unfamiliar scent and sniffed suspiciously,
his eyes darting around the office. In the middle of his small coffee
table stood a pot of white flowers. He got up quickly, picked up the
flowers, and strode out into the reception area, where he set the pot
down hard in the middle of Isabella's desk. She looked up at him,
annoyed. From the cage on the card table next to her desk, Carlyle
Burke's parrot shrieked at him.
"You startled him,” said Isabella disapprovingly.
"Keep your damn plants out of my office," said Alberg.
"And keep that damn bird quiet." He turned to leave and
then I came back. "What are they, anyway?"
"Stock," said Isabella. "Nice smell, eh?"
Alberg put his hands flat on her desk and
in a car accident."
"Thirty years ago. You mean he was fifty-five before he got
married?"
"Yes."
"Why did he wait so long?"
"I really haven't the faintest idea." She sounded cool,
now. "Did you go to his wedding?"
"I hadn't any choice. My mother was still alive—it would
have upset her if I'd stayed away."
"You met his wife, then, and her brother?"
"I met Audrey. I don't remember meeting George. I remember
that she spoke of him with great affection, and that he gave her
away, but I don't remember him.”
"Did you see him this week, while you were in Sechelt?"
"No."
Alberg frowned, irritated. All this was very interesting, but what
the hell did it mean, if anything?
"Tell me about Audrey," he said.
"I only saw her a few times, over a period of a couple of
days. She was lovely.” Alberg could hear her smile. "Absolutely
a lovely person. Not so much in the way she looked, although she was
very pretty. It was more—oh, a kind of singing in her, if you know
what I mean." Alberg wished he could see her face. "I was
amazed that she was going to marry Carlyle—she was twenty years
younger—and that she behaved so fondly toward him, and seemed so
happy." She gave a bitter laugh. "But nothing lasts, does
it, Mr. Alberg? Two years later, she was dead.”
"Some things last, Mrs. Morris," said Alberg gently.
"You hated him, and that sure lasted, didn't it?"
She sighed. "I can't help you," she said wearily. "l
have no idea who could have killed him. You'll probably find it was
one of those senseless acts of—of random violence. There's a lot of
that, these days, isn't there?"
When he'd hung up the phone, he sat back with his feet up on the
desk and his hands behind his head.
His office was small, containing in addition to his desk and
swivel chair a filing cabinet, a large bulletin board, some
bookshelves, a deep black leather chair with an aluminum frame, and
next to it a small, scarred coffee table.
Maybe he'd try to get back out to Toronto later in the summer, to
see his parents, he thought. Maybe he could pry his daughters loose
from Calgary and take them with him.
He swung around in his chair to look at the photograph. He found
himself studying it intently.
They were young women in their late teens, standing in front of a
tall, smooth-trunked tree. Unsmiling, grave, they seemed to bend
slightly toward each other, like dancers. The girl with shorter hair
and larger eyes was deeply tanned; she stood behind her younger
sister, her right shoulder pressing lightly against Diana's left.
Diana, hair long and sleek, the color of taffy, faced the camera
almost straight on. Her head and neck and shoulders were aware of her
sister; she had an air of guarded protectiveness. They were
bare-armed, wearing dresses, and Janey's tan was very dark against
Diana's ivory skin. They looked straight out from the photograph,
straight into his eyes, and they weren't smiling. He had taken the
picture the summer before he left Kamloops. Had they broken into
laughter when the picture-taking was over? He couldn't remember. Or
had they turned their backs on him and walked away down a tree-arched
road into their own futures, abandoning him as he was about to
abandon them?. . .
He became aware of an unfamiliar scent and sniffed suspiciously,
his eyes darting around the office. In the middle of his small coffee
table stood a pot of white flowers. He got up quickly, picked up the
flowers, and strode out into the reception area, where he set the pot
down hard in the middle of Isabella's desk. She looked up at him,
annoyed. From the cage on the card table next to her desk, Carlyle
Burke's parrot shrieked at him.
"You startled him,” said Isabella disapprovingly.
"Keep your damn plants out of my office," said Alberg.
"And keep that damn bird quiet." He turned to leave and
then I came back. "What are they, anyway?"
"Stock," said Isabella. "Nice smell, eh?"
Alberg put his hands flat on her desk and
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