Read Online You Don't Know Jack by Adrianne Lee - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Adrianne Lee
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casket!"
For the first time the crowd fell silent, their collective gazes shifting toward the altar and the closed casket. Ida started fanning again. "Oh, my! Poor Lars!"
Sophie righted her half-glasses. "I could have sworn I heard he was poisoned."
"He died by the dagger." Madam Zee proclaimed in her eerily soft, yet commanding voice, an all-knowing glint in her ice blue eyes. Large and round, her hair dyed jet black, she dripped of dangling, clanking gold jewelry and myriad colorful scarfs. She fancied herself a reincarnated gypsy fortune teller and offered readings of palms, tea leaves, Tarot cards and head lumps. She ran the tip of a blood-red fingernail across her throat to emphasize her point. "I did a reading. It was in the cards. The dagger."
I shivered at the image, recalling the blood on my hands, and I wondered again just how Lars had died. Stone hadn't said. Cause of death was one of the things the police were holding back.
"Oh, for God's sake." Apollo said, exasperated either at the conversation or the fact that mourners from all sides — Lars' friends and fans — tossed disapproving stares our way. He growled in a taut whisper, "Lars was shot."
I jerked fully toward him, stunned that he'd have such information. "Who told you tha—?"
"I'll tell you later," Apollo said, cutting me off. Strain showed around his dark eyes, despite his best efforts to hide the physical signs of his distress with concealer. My guilt meter ratcheted another notch higher.
The minister stepped to the pulpit. Game on . The church fell quiet. Finally. His kind face and reverent voice did nothing to slow my motoring mind. If Lars had been shot it would solve everything. Charging someone with murder required means, motive, and opportunity. Apollo had opportunity, but neither means, nor motive. If Lars had been shot, then Apollo would drop off the suspect list like last week's best seller on Amazon.com.
But had he been shot?
If only I had seen the wound. As the rest of the congregation bowed their heads to pray, I stared at the coffin, and prayed once again for X-ray eyes. Were you shot, Lars ?
The question seemed to draw the force of the Jedi into my skull with a swift, brilliant, roaring flash that I felt all the way to my toes. A second later, I swear I heard Lars whisper inside my head, "Ah, darlin', you know you didn't hear a gunshot that night."
I stiffened like a corpse. Liquid evaporated from my mouth. Either I was starring in a remake of The Blair Witch Project or I'd gone stark raving mad. Did that even make sense? Could grief drive you suddenly insane? Was I certifiable? Lock-up-able? Or was this just wishful thinking? Just my wanting to speak to Lars so badly that my mind had actually conjured his spirit?
"You're not crazy, darlin'."
I almost wet my pants. It was Lars . OMG. What was he doing in my head? I glared at the coffin, hoping what remained of him there could feel my animosity for scaring the beejesus out of me, for being dead, and for dashing my hope of easily excavating Apollo from the shit pile.
But damn his ghostly hide for being right. I'd heard a scuffle the night he died. No loud pop. Nothing that sounded like a car backfiring. No gunshot. Maybe the killer used a silencer. Or maybe Apollo, like the others, was speculating.
"Figure it out, darlin'," Lars urged.
"No." My breath caught; I was arguing with a ghost. "Leave me alone."
"You owe me, darlin'."
Damn. Even dead Lars wouldn't take "no!" for an answer. What if his ghost hounded, er, haunted me until I solved his murder?
"I will, darlin'. Count on it."
"Why don't you tell me who did it and then I'll find the evidence and give it to Stone?" I waited. But there was no response. Nothing. No more ghostly advice or arguments or assistance. Just me talking to myself in my head.
I shifted uncomfortably on the pew as the preacher advanced to reading from notes, expounding his own interpretation of what he'd been told about Lars' life. An edited
For the first time the crowd fell silent, their collective gazes shifting toward the altar and the closed casket. Ida started fanning again. "Oh, my! Poor Lars!"
Sophie righted her half-glasses. "I could have sworn I heard he was poisoned."
"He died by the dagger." Madam Zee proclaimed in her eerily soft, yet commanding voice, an all-knowing glint in her ice blue eyes. Large and round, her hair dyed jet black, she dripped of dangling, clanking gold jewelry and myriad colorful scarfs. She fancied herself a reincarnated gypsy fortune teller and offered readings of palms, tea leaves, Tarot cards and head lumps. She ran the tip of a blood-red fingernail across her throat to emphasize her point. "I did a reading. It was in the cards. The dagger."
I shivered at the image, recalling the blood on my hands, and I wondered again just how Lars had died. Stone hadn't said. Cause of death was one of the things the police were holding back.
"Oh, for God's sake." Apollo said, exasperated either at the conversation or the fact that mourners from all sides — Lars' friends and fans — tossed disapproving stares our way. He growled in a taut whisper, "Lars was shot."
I jerked fully toward him, stunned that he'd have such information. "Who told you tha—?"
"I'll tell you later," Apollo said, cutting me off. Strain showed around his dark eyes, despite his best efforts to hide the physical signs of his distress with concealer. My guilt meter ratcheted another notch higher.
The minister stepped to the pulpit. Game on . The church fell quiet. Finally. His kind face and reverent voice did nothing to slow my motoring mind. If Lars had been shot it would solve everything. Charging someone with murder required means, motive, and opportunity. Apollo had opportunity, but neither means, nor motive. If Lars had been shot, then Apollo would drop off the suspect list like last week's best seller on Amazon.com.
But had he been shot?
If only I had seen the wound. As the rest of the congregation bowed their heads to pray, I stared at the coffin, and prayed once again for X-ray eyes. Were you shot, Lars ?
The question seemed to draw the force of the Jedi into my skull with a swift, brilliant, roaring flash that I felt all the way to my toes. A second later, I swear I heard Lars whisper inside my head, "Ah, darlin', you know you didn't hear a gunshot that night."
I stiffened like a corpse. Liquid evaporated from my mouth. Either I was starring in a remake of The Blair Witch Project or I'd gone stark raving mad. Did that even make sense? Could grief drive you suddenly insane? Was I certifiable? Lock-up-able? Or was this just wishful thinking? Just my wanting to speak to Lars so badly that my mind had actually conjured his spirit?
"You're not crazy, darlin'."
I almost wet my pants. It was Lars . OMG. What was he doing in my head? I glared at the coffin, hoping what remained of him there could feel my animosity for scaring the beejesus out of me, for being dead, and for dashing my hope of easily excavating Apollo from the shit pile.
But damn his ghostly hide for being right. I'd heard a scuffle the night he died. No loud pop. Nothing that sounded like a car backfiring. No gunshot. Maybe the killer used a silencer. Or maybe Apollo, like the others, was speculating.
"Figure it out, darlin'," Lars urged.
"No." My breath caught; I was arguing with a ghost. "Leave me alone."
"You owe me, darlin'."
Damn. Even dead Lars wouldn't take "no!" for an answer. What if his ghost hounded, er, haunted me until I solved his murder?
"I will, darlin'. Count on it."
"Why don't you tell me who did it and then I'll find the evidence and give it to Stone?" I waited. But there was no response. Nothing. No more ghostly advice or arguments or assistance. Just me talking to myself in my head.
I shifted uncomfortably on the pew as the preacher advanced to reading from notes, expounding his own interpretation of what he'd been told about Lars' life. An edited
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