A Quiet Kill by Janet Brons Read Free Book Online Page A

who runs a brothel. Okay, what’s next?”
    Ouellette picked up the story. “Another interesting thing—I got this from Ottawa earlier today—Guévin was her married name. Her birth name was, in fact, Natalia Lukjovic. She was born in the former Yugoslavia, in a small town outside Pale. Her parents got out in the late fifties; Natalia would have been three or four. Ended up in Montreal, where her father opened up a dry-cleaning business. She was an only child and subsequently attended Université Laval. Married a Philippe Guévin in 1974. The marriage only lasted a couple of years, but she hung on to her married name and seems to have made the transition from ‘Natalia’ to ‘Natalie.’ No kids. Monsieur Guévin is now an architect in the Montreal area, and preliminary inquiries suggest he hasn’t been outside Québec for at least six months. It seems they haven’t been in touch for years.”
    Wilkins added, “Her only real hobby seems to have been the horses. Competitions, even. Seems to have done quite well in local horse shows—dressage, is it called? She joined the Canadian foreign service in 1979 and had a steady if unspectacular climb through the ranks. Postings to Buenos Aires, Singapore, Rome, Bangkok, and London.”
    â€œNice for some,” muttered Middleton into his beer.
    â€œNot so nice for her, was it?” snapped Hay. He turned back to Wilkins, trying to ignore the strongman competition now taking place over the detective sergeant’s shoulder. “Good. Is there anything further from forensics?”
    â€œThey’ve confirmed their preliminary findings. No evidence of alcohol, drugs, or toxins in the blood, although further tests will be run. That thing the killer used to clobber her with, the red and white club, was identified as an ax handle. Moreover,” Wilkins added, “it appears that Ms. Guévin was about twelve weeks pregnant.”
    Liz sat on the end of the bed in her hotel room, staring blankly. Three glasses of wine had done nothing to organize her thoughts, but she doubted things would be any clearer were she stone cold sober. This was unlikely to be cleared up in a day or two. Who had killed this woman? And who had this woman been? A kind, gentle person who took the time to talk to the Mary Kellicks of the world? A promiscuous tart? A horsewoman dedicated to her job, with a quiet, even non-existent, social life?
    The room was lovely, peaceful. Dark, rich paneling throughout, with heavy floral curtains sealing out the wind and drizzle. What had been evident was that Detective Chief Inspector Stephen Hay had not believed a word Gerry Middleton had said. A pretty shaded floor lamp illuminated a broad, deep-seated wing chair; an antique desk stood below an ornate gilt mirror. The mirror, Liz decided, she could have done without. Her eyes, rimmed in black like a raccoon’s, stared back at her, and the unwelcome lines in her face were yet more deeply etched due to fatigue. Her last thought before she went to sleep was, At least I’m going riding tomorrow . It was a thought that had brought her comfort since she was a little girl.
    It was 11:30 at night, and Mary Kellick was making meatballs. Mary loved to cook. She couldn’t cook like Luciano, of course, but then he was a real chef de cuisine . He was nice, though, and would talk to her about cooking anytime she wanted. Mary cooked with great precision. If a recipe called for half a cup of water, she could spend up to five minutes crouching at the counter, pouring water out and adding it again until the measuring cup registered exactly half full.
    Tonight’s recipe included beef, veal, and pork, plus eggs, onions, parsley, paprika, and Worcestershire sauce. Now Mary was rolling perfect little spheres between the palms of her hands and placing them on cookie sheets.
    She was, she thought proudly, a perfectionist. Not just in cooking either; she