Dead Man Waltzing by Ella Barrick Read Free Book Online Page B

went right. The first room I looked in was a bedroom, but the room across from it, which must face the backyard, was an office, complete with desk, file cabinet, and typewriter. Finally! I made my way across the room mostly by feel and fumbled with the drapes, pulling the cord to close them. Only then did I return to the door, find the light switch, and flick it on, illuminating a Tiffany table lamp.
    I made straight for the desk, the sight of the old Smith Corona electric typewriter making me hopeful. No stack of manuscript pages sat beside it, however, and I could find none in the drawers. Sighing, I turned to the wooden file cabinet and opened the top drawer. Financial records. Investments. Insurance. The second drawer held what looked like personal correspondence, each file folder labeled with a name. Riffling through the first folder, marked AMELIA ADAMS, I found letters dating back to the mid-twentieth century. Corinne must have saved every letter she ever got. Fascinating for a biographer, but not so useful to me. The rest of the folders in the drawer, alphabetically filed, held similar contents.
    I checked the time. I’d been in the house eighteen minutes. The low buzz of adrenaline that had been keeping me pumped was beginning to wear off, and I felt jumpy and tired. What if Turner Blakely had car trouble and didn’t make it to the bachelor party? He could be home any moment. What if some nosy neighbor got curious about my Volkswagen and called the police? They could be surrounding the house right now. Once the thought had entered my mind, I couldn’t get rid of it. Giving in to my paranoia, I crossed to the window and drew one fold of the drapes aside a smidge. Nothing moved in the backyard. Feeling silly, I returned to the file cabinet and opened the bottom drawer.
    No sign of a manuscript here, either, but one of the folders was labeled BOOK AGENT, and another bore the name of a publishing house. I didn’t have time to read all the legal documents in either folder, but I copied down the agent’s name and phone number, as well as the name of the woman who’d signed the letters from the publisher; her title was executive editor and vice president. Slipping my one puny page of notes into my pocket, I checked to make sure I had my useless flashlight, and returned to the hall. I glanced toward the door at the end of the hall, the one I figured led to Corinne Blakely’s bedroom. The half-open door beckoned me, an invitation, but my nerves were fried, and I felt uncomfortable about invading the dead woman’s bedroom. Ransacking her office was bad enough; I couldn’t make myself paw through her bedside tables or peer under the bed for a manuscript I was beginning to think must be already with her agent or editor. I turned toward the stairs.
    I found myself speeding up as I neared the stairs; I was jogging by the time I reached them and started down. I took them two at a time, holding on to the banister, eager to reach the foyer, the front door, and freedom.
    That might be why I didn’t notice the woman just to the left of the bottom stair, holding a fireplace poker in a stance that would have done Mark McGwire proud, looking like she planned to slam me over the fence, until I practically bumped into her.

Chapter 7
    I let out a stifled scream.
    The woman took two steps back and raised the poker higher. “You stay here while I call the police,” she said in a surprisingly deep voice that belied her looks. She was short, plump, and eighty years old if she was a day. Thinning white hair crinkled around her seamed face, and a pair of modern, red-framed bifocals perched on her Roman nose.
    “I don’t think so.”
    I sprinted toward the front door but didn’t get two steps before the poker cracked against my ankle. She hadn’t been able to put much force into the blow, but it stung like the dickens and made me stumble. I righted myself and had a hand on the door handle when a wheezing sound made me turn. The old