Read Online Who'll Kill Agnes? by Lea Chan - Free Book Online

As she rubbed the necklace dreamily across her cheek, she thought she heard her door creak. As she threw the necklace recklessly into the safe, she jerked around and called out, “Lester, is that you? How dare you open my door without knocking!”
    Shaking, she jumped up, ran to the door, opened it, and peered into the small, empty hallway. She crossed to Lester’s room and pounded on the door. There was no answer. She pushed it open and went in.
    “Lester, are you here?”
    “What the hell?” he said, stepping out of his bathroom with shaving cream on his face.
    “Did you just now try to open my door?” she asked angrily.
    “No, I did not. I’m shaving. Why? Did something happen?”
    “No, no I guess not. I thought I heard something.”
    Disconsolate, she returned to her room. “Was I imagining noises that weren’t there? This is an old house, and old houses creak from time to time. Did I lock my door last night? Nobody, but nobody, especially Audrey, must ever find out about my jewelry. She has no right to it and there’s no reason for her to know about it.”
     
    Lester remained standing in the bathroom doorway. Had one of the women tried to do something then lost her nerve at the last moment? But damn stupid to try in the morning when Agnes was up. Still, this was good, this was promising.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER FOUR
     

Monday, June 3rd
     
    Expecting Agnes to arrive for breakfast with her usual eight o’clock punctuality, Mark had homemade, deep-fried cake doughnuts rolled in cinnamon sugar waiting for her. The others would drift down slowly, one at a time, during the course of the morning, nibble at whatever pastry or goodie that Mark had set out, and drink juice and coffee. Except for Bernie, they didn’t eat as heartily as did Agnes, at least not for breakfast. Lester was strictly a coffee man not caring to eat in the morning. Audrey and Penny nibbled while Bernie would eat everything that was left over. Between her and Agnes the pastries disappeared. Agnes was the only one who wanted something else with the pastries, usually an egg dish.
    Upon arrival at Henley House, Mark soon learned the morning and lunch eating habits of the residents and adjusted his menus to suit everyone, including himself. He arose early each day and made breakfast pastries or similar sweet concoctions, a different one for each day of the week. Cake doughnuts were served on Monday mornings, French toast and maple syrup followed on Tuesday, pancake rolls filled with melted butter and brown sugar were Wednesday’s fare, fruit strudel on Thursdays, cinnamon rolls for Friday, fried fruit pies on Saturday, and Sundays were devoted to gigantic blueberry muffins dripping with melted butter. The recipes had been handed down for generations from his mother’s family and were the only ones that he did not tamper with. He thoroughly enjoyed his mornings in the large, well-equipped kitchen, concocting sugary cholesterol-filled goodies, which were probably clogging the arteries of the inhabitants of Henley House, a notion that didn’t bother him at all.
    “Ah, Marcel,” drooled Agnes as she entered the small breakfast nook next to the kitchen, “the doughnuts smell divine.”
    “Tank-you, muh-dom,” he replied as he helped her sit down then poured her a cup of coffee. “What else would you like this morning?”
    “I think perhaps a cheese omelet.”
    “Very good, muh-dom,” he said as he retreated to the kitchen to whip up a speedy omelet.
    Agnes sipped her coffee and gobbled one of the doughnuts. Mark soon returned with the requested omelet and a small glass of orange juice.
    “Oh, exquisite, exquisite,” she gushed.
    While Agnes ate, Mark