Angel With a Bullet by M. C. Grant Read Free Book Online Page A

can simply walk away from your responsibility in this matter.
    â€”Pearl
    I return the note to the envelope.
    â€œWho’s Pearl?”
    Mrs. Pennell shrugs. “I have been trying to think, but I do not believe I know anyone with that name.”
    â€œSomeone in your past?”
    â€œNot that I can recall.”
    â€œIs there a responsibility you’ve been neglecting? Something that would spark—”
    She shakes her head dismissively. “I’m sure it is just nonsense.”
    â€œIf it was, you wouldn’t look so worried.”
    She sighs. “I have lived a quiet, genteel life for more than a quarter century now. Apart from taking a broom to an occasional creepy crawly, I don’t believe I have done anything to warrant such attention. It is obviously a case of mistaken identity.”
    I start to respond, to ask what type of life she lived prior to her quarter-century mark of gentility, but she holds up a firm hand.
    â€œNow, would you like a cookie with your tea?”
    I have to admire her.
    â€œSure,” I say softly, “that would be nice.”
    Mrs. Pennell places a small plate of cookies on a tray, adds a sugar bowl and tiny jug of cream, two china cups on saucers, and the brown teapot.
    â€œLet me carry that,” I say, lifting the tray and following her into the living room. I place the tray on a coffee table in front of the television set. The TV is broadcasting a morning talk show with the volume turned low.
    â€œWould you like me to look into it?” I ask, pouring the strong brew into the delicate cups. “Just to clear up any misunderstanding?”
    Mrs. Pennell raises her shoulders very slightly in a noncommittal gesture.
    â€œIf I don’t,” I continue, “I’m afraid Kristy may drag Sam down here to sleep on your doorstep.”
    Mrs. Pennell flashes a lipless smile as she accepts the tea and a chocolate-coated finger cookie.
    â€œDo you remember the artist, Diego?” she asks, changing the subject. “The gentleman who lived above you before Derek and Shahnaz.”
    I nod. “Was it on the news?”
    â€œYes. You know then?”
    â€œI was called to the scene last night.”
    â€œThey say he killed himself.”
    I nod again.
    Mrs. Pennell sighs wearily. “He didn’t seem the type.”
    I have to agree.
    _____
    After tea, I cross the hall to Mr. French’s apartment and knock.
    â€œAnd who could that be, Baccarat?” I hear him say as he clomps his way to the door. “Are we expecting company?”
    Mr. French opens the door and beams up at me. He is an old man in a child’s body. Standing at three feet, ten inches, Mr. French is dressed impeccably in tweed pants, white golf shirt, lamb’s wool cardigan with wooden buttons, and a pair of comfortable Acorn-brand slippers. Clutched in his hand is a burl pipe carved in the shape of a bulldog’s head, and the smoke rising from its bowl smells wonderfully of warm chocolate cake and cherry sauce.
    â€œMs. Flynn,” he booms. “What a wonderful surprise. Come in, come in. Baccarat will be thrilled.”
    â€œI can’t stay long.”
    â€œOf course, of course, but you must say hello to Baccarat or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
    I follow him into the main room and make appropriate kissing/cooing noises to his pet parakeet, which as far as I can tell seems to pay me about as much attention as Bubbles does.
    Mr. French claps his hands together in delight.
    â€œOh, she likes that.” He beams. “Yes, indeed.”
    I smile and remove Mrs. Pennell’s letter from my pocket as I sit on the loveseat.
    â€œI need your help with a puzzle,” I say.
    â€œAh, bravo. Let me get my tools.”
    When he returns from the bedroom, he’s holding a slim velvet wallet. He moves to the coffee table and props his pipe in an electronic ashtray that sucks the smoke from the air and filters most of it