Appraisal for Murder by Elaine Orr Read Free Book Online

look to tell Mrs. Riordan really was dead, and then one of them turned his attention to me. He said something about me being in shock. I didn’t think I really was, though never having been in shock, how would I know? I do know that I can’t say “kick the bucket” again. It now seems very disrespectful.
    An older police officer walked out of the house and asked me if I knew where “the son” was, making him the third one to ask about Michael Riordan. I repeated his “business in town” comment, and was tempted to remind him that ‘town’ was so small they should be able to find him easily. Instead, I said, “He does buy coffee at Java Jolt.” I wished I had thought to say this earlier.
    “Yeah, we knew that,” he said. He was probably in his mid-forties, but he dressed like someone in their seventies – polyester pants and a tie with a pattern that had been in fashion about the time I was born. Only his shoes could be called modern, a dark-colored athletic shoe that I know sells for well more than twice as much as I spend for my jogging shoes. I supposed he was on his feet a lot, so he acquiesced to comfort over cost.
    His badge said ‘Sgt. Morehouse.’ “Why are there so many police here?” I gestured with the soda can to the three cars, which I figured were a good portion of Ocean Alley’s force.
    “Unattended death. We have to investigate.” He waved to what looked to be a hearse.
    I realized it said “County Coroner” on the side. It seemed the investigation meant poor Mrs. Riordan was not going directly to the funeral home, not that it would matter to her either way. Still sitting, I touched Morehouse’s elbow. “But she was sick.”
    “Yeah, but not that sick.”
    I drew a quick breath and his tone grew kinder. “We just have to document the cause of death. Probably a heart attack or something.” He turned his attention to the coroner’s staff. “You can take her in about twenty minutes. We’re almost finished dusting.”
    For prints? All I could think of was the beautiful paint and woodwork. Before I could ask him why they were looking at fingerprints when it looked like a heart attack, a silver Mercedes pulled up and Michael Riordan got out. It must have been in the garage, I would have noticed that car in the driveway.
    “Where is she, what happened?” he demanded of Morehouse, and tried to follow the coroner staff into the house.
    “Whoa. Just hang on a minute,” Morehouse said. “I’ll explain…”
    Riordan turned on the man. “Explain now!” His face was reddening fast and I sensed that if Morehouse hadn’t had a badge pinned to his sport coat Michael would have shaken him.
    That ought to endear him to the police. I glanced back to Michael and realized his gaze had shifted to me. “I’m sorry Michael, she seems to have passed away.”
    “That’s not possible,” he said, as if there was simply no option for that. “She was fine when I left.”
    “I thought she hadn’t been up,” Morehouse said, quickly.
    “No, but I looked in on her a couple of times. She was breathing and…everything.” His voice trailed off, and he suddenly looked a lot less arrogant. I held out my soda can. “No thanks,” he said, and turned to Morehouse. “When can I go in?”
    “It won’t be too long. Why don’t you have a seat with the young lady,” Morehouse gestured to me, “and I’ll come get you soon.” He went back in the house.
    “They throw you out?” he asked, looking at me.
    “They brought me out. I needed some fresh air.” I wasn’t sure what to say. “I sat with her, until the ambulance people came.”
    “I appreciate that.” He turned his gaze from me and looked straight ahead, so I studied his profile for a moment. His angular face was taut. After a moment I could tell his thoughts had gone elsewhere. It was a relief for me not to feel I had to comfort him. I was still kind of jittery myself.
    I began to reflect on the last hour. I had gone upstairs and