Cancelled by Murder by Jean Flowers Read Free Book Online Page A

rubbed his forehead, stressed. “I have so much to learn. I don’t know where to begin. I guess I figured she’d always be around.”
    I was at a loss to respond verbally and hoped taking his hand and guiding him to sit down again would do the trick.
    When we were both seated at one of Mahican’s more scratched-up wooden tables, Cliff handed me a memorial card. On one side was an image of an angel in white, arms (wings?) raised to heaven; on the other a poetic tribute to Daisy Harmon and the important dates in her life. Her birth, marriage to Cliff, and death. A small photo of her was included; in it she looked much younger than her forty-four years. By contrast, Cliff, ten years older than Daisy, I’d heard, looked old enough today to be her father.
    â€œThis card is lovely,” I said. “I’m surprised you have it so soon.”
    â€œThe funeral parlor prints the cards themselves, would you believe? Pretty much while you wait.”
    â€œI guess I would believe it.” I thought of Aunt Tess’s memorial last summer and how many services the mortuary offered, right on site. Turnkey shopping was the rule, complete with sheet music to review, and several designs of memorial cards to choose from, like the one I had in my hand.
    â€œThey’re making the arrangements to have her flown to Miami where her parents are, as soon as”—he closed his eyes and swallowed—“the police will give her back to us.”
    I let Cliff take the lead in the conversation. He seemed to want to chat for a while. I heard how determined Daisy was to make the shop work, how passionate she was about everything she became involved in. Her husband extolled Daisy’s virtues as a wife, a friend, a businesswoman, a concerned citizen.
    I wasn’t sure yet why I needed to hear this, or why I wassitting across from him, but I wasn’t about to rush Cliff into telling me what favor he wanted. The iced cappuccino was refreshing and if all Cliff needed was someone to listen, I had no problem filling the role.
    About fifteen minutes into the visit, I noticed our chief of police enter the café. Before I could put my cup down and raise my hand in greeting, she came up to our table. One might even say, stormed over to our table.
    â€œHey, Sunni,” I said.
    She nodded and looked at Cliff, then me, then back and forth one more time. “I hope this isn’t what I think it might be,” she said, a neutral expression on her face. “It will be much better for all of us if we stick to the jobs we’re committed to do.” She rapped her knuckles on the table and strode away, without the teasing smile or pat on my shoulder that I expected, leaving me agape.
    â€œWhat was that about?” I asked Cliff, who seemed to know what Sunni was talking about, as evidenced by the dramatic nodding of his head while she issued her directive.
    â€œIt was a warning,” he said. “I may have vented a little down at the station today, about how they’re not doing much to find out who killed my wife.”
    â€œThey’ve hardly known about it for a day,” I reminded him.
    â€œI know, but they’re not exactly the NYPD, or even the BPD, are they?”
    New York and Boston. Apparently, Cliff put more faith in big-city police forces. I couldn’t blame him. Sunni had four officers, one admin, and a fleet of three patrol cars at her disposal. I didn’t know the stats of the NYPD, but in my former job, I did interact with the BPD’s postal needs andrecalled that there were over two thousand officers and nearly one thousand civilians in the department, all together about the entire population of North Ashcot.
    While I’d been doing the math, Cliff had continued. “When I went down there this morning, there was Ross—Officer Little, that is—playing solitaire or poker or something on his computer.”
    I felt a great urge to defend my