An Act of Deceit: Book 2 of the Sarah Woods Mysteries by Jennifer L. Jennings Read Free Book Online

neighborly wave. “Mister Wilcox? I’m Sarah Woods.” He nodded, opened the door a bit wider, and motioned me inside. “I’m grateful to you for taking the time to meet with me. If you’re not feeling well, I can come back another time.”
         “I’m not sure”—he spoke slowly, pausing between words as if perpetually out of breath—“what this is about. You said you wanted to . . . to talk about Marty?” From his milky yellow eyes and the rancid stench of his breath, I surmised Ted was quite ill. He closed the door and we stood for a moment facing each other in the small apartment. He looked at me quizzically then gestured toward a chair.
         “I’m writing an article about Marty for Gourmet Magazine,” I began, as I settled into the chair. “I was hoping you could tell me a little about your friend.”
         Ted raised his palm to stop me. “Please forgive me. This is all . . . so shocking. Marty and I were . . . friends for many years. I always figured I’d . . . be the first to go.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his forehead.
         “I’m sorry,” I said, starting to get up from the chair. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
         “I’ll be fine. I want to . . . help you if I can.”
         I settled back into the chair, withdrew a notebook from my purse then asked, “How would you characterize Marty?”
         Ted lowered himself slowly into a dark, mustard colored recliner and ran a shaking hand through the thin strands of hair. “Marty was one of those guys . . . always had a joke, always laughing. He was . . . a good time Charlie . . . a fun drinking buddy. I don’t think he had . . . an enemy in the world.” Ted began to cough and his face turned red and blotchy. He pointed to a glass of water on a nearby table. I quickly got up and handed it to him. He took a few short sips and looked at me apologetically. “Sorry about that. It happens more and more. I wish it would . . . just end.”
         “No need to apologize.” I gave him a moment to recover, then asked, “How did you and Marty meet?”
         I followed Ted’s gaze to a framed photograph on a shelf. A young woman sat with a small girl in her lap. His expression changed.
         “My wife, Lorraine . . . passed away over twenty years ago . . . from breast cancer. I was devastated . . . as you can imagine.” Ted coughed into his handkerchief and cleared his throat. “I started frequenting Marty’s restaurant. Spent many a night at the bar . . . having a scotch or two. Marty would join me on occasion.” He began to cough again.
         “Is that your wife?” I asked, gesturing towards the bookcase. The woman in the photo had dark auburn hair, green eyes, and a slender jaw. She appeared to be in her mid-forties.
         He nodded. “That picture was taken right before she died.” He hesitated. “She was a lovely woman. She suffered too much at the end.” A heavy frown appeared on his face.
         “Is that your daughter?” I pointed my pen at the photo, but he quickly looked away. I waited. Evidently, he didn’t want to talk about her.
         “I’m sorry,” I said. “Let’s get back to Marty. You mentioned he was a good time Charlie. Did you ever meet any of his other drinking buddies?”
         Ted hesitated as he stuffed his handkerchief in his shirt pocket. “I don’t recall. The only time I saw Marty . . . was at the restaurant. People were always coming and going. I may have, but I . . . wouldn’t remember names.”
         “How about faces?” I asked, showing him the photo of Harding. “Did you ever see this man at the restaurant?”
         Ted looked at the photo and shook his head. “He doesn’t look familiar.”
         I slipped the photo back into my purse. “Did Marty ever talk to you about his wife?”
         “He mentioned her a few times. I never met her.”
         “Did Marty seem happy in his