All Chickens Must Die: A Benjamin Wade Mystery by Scott Dennis Parker Read Free Book Online

her husband insists on a driver to make sure
she’s safe. And, since the driver’s here, that means she’s probably inside,
wishing she could just get in her car and drive away.”
    The half-lidded eyes widened a bit.
    I pushed ahead. “So, do we get to see Mrs. Aldridge or do we
start hollering?” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. “You suppose the neighbors
will mind if I honked my horn?”
    The distaste in the butler’s face was pronounced. “Sir, I’m not
in the habit of being bullied at my place of employment.”
    “That’s okay. I’m used to being ignored. But this guy’s not.” I
indicated Gardner. “Know who he is? He’s a reporter with the Post . He’s
writing a piece on the burglary. I know he’d really like to have actual facts
for his story. We both know the Post runs quality journalism, but, well,
you know. He also writes fiction. The pulps. You read those?”
    “I do not, sir.” The butler’s temper was starting to sizzle.
    “So, since you’re being an obstacle, we’ll just be on our way.
C’mon, Gordon.” I said it louder than the butler wanted. I was rewarded with a
grimace.
    We moved backward toward my car when a female voice spoke from
above us. “It’s okay, Randolph. I’ll see them.”
    Gardner craned his neck to see who had spoken.
    I just smiled.
    Randolph, keeping his seething to a bare minimum, showed both
Gardner and me into the upstairs solarium. It had windows on two sides. The sun
steamed in and glistened off the ceramic tiles on the floor. In the middle of
the room was an easel with a canvas. A still life, fruits in a bowl. Looked
like Mrs. Aldridge fancied herself a painter. I could tell what I was looking
at, but she was a far cry from good.
    The woman herself was a specimen. Blond, thin, with curves that
could send a man into vertigo just looking at them, Sarah Aldridge stood with
the confident self-assurance of one who knew her place in society, knew that
she looked good and had men ogling her all the time, and knew what she wanted
and likely to get it. She stood in front of the easel, a painter’s palette
hooked around one thumb and a brush in the other. She didn’t turn when we came
into the room.
    “Thank you, Randolph.” she dismissed him with her tone. The
butler gave us a last stink eye and glided out of the room.
    “I supposed you both want to know what happened last week.” 
Single-malt scotch was not as smooth as that voice. “Isn’t that why you
threatened my butler?”
    I stepped forward, angling to get a look at her face. She had yet
to turn, but the hair was swept up in a gentle twist on her head, a few loose
strands hanging down to her neck. I wanted to see if her face matched the
figure. “My name’s Wade. I’m a private investigator. This is Gordon Gardner
from the Post . Yes, we’re following up on the burglary last week.”
    Still without turning, she said, “I understand why Mr. Gardner’s
here, assuming he’s telling the truth.” She put the finishing touches on one of
the oranges and placed the brush onto the table next to the easel. “What I want
to know is why you’re here.”
    She turned. Light from one of the windows caught her hair and
made it glow. Stunning was too mild a word; it didn’t do Sarah Aldridge
justice. The high cheek bones, the full lips, the gossamer skin were traits any
woman would kill to have. She had them all, but she also had the coup de grace:
her eyes. The light green eyes of the Caribbean Sea. You could get lost in
them. I did right then.
    Gardner caught me napping. “Sometimes Mr. Wade here likes to
think before he speaks.” He nudged me.
    Sarah smiled. “That’s a good habit to have. More men should have
it.”
    I cleared my throat. “I’m investigating the burglary last week.”
    “Did my husband hire you?”
    “No.”
    “Then I don’t see why you’re here. If we didn’t hire you and we
didn’t file a police report, how are you even on a case?”
    The verbal slap was enough to jolt