Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers by J. F. Penn, Cheryl Bradshaw, Diane Capri, J. Carson Black, Aaron Patterson, Vincent Zandri, M A Comley, Carol Davis Luce, Joshua Graham, Michele Scott, Allan Leverone, Linda S Prather Read Free Book Online Page B
four rooms. A total of maybe 800 square feet. Lots of pine, lots of gaps and warps. The living room had two worn recliners and a 60-inch flat screen TV. There were fashion magazines on a folding table. The windows were opaque with dirt.
Gaspar had moved farther into the house, observing everything, just as she was. He was taking pictures from time to time.
Of what?
Am I missing something?
Kim recalled Gaspar’s question. What kind of woman had chosen to live in this place? She glanced toward the kitchen and saw the answer right there.
Mrs. Sylvia Black sat on one of the two kitchen chairs, head down. Cuffed hands hung between her knees. She held her palms together, rhythmically opening and closing each set of matched fingers, one set at a time, like a metronome, counting.
Counting what?
She had a recent manicure. She had perfectly shaped nails, quite short, painted pastel pink. She had a large square onyx ring with a silver cable around it on her right index finger, and a smaller turquoise ring by the same designer on her right pinky. She was wearing the kind of black patent sandals that fashionable women covet, and she had a fresh pedicure. Her toenails were polished deep purple. Her yellow silk blouse had a pink and green designer’s monogram. Dark silk slacks tapered smartly down her calf, where an ankle bracelet sat near a yellow rose tattoo.
Then someone made a noise and Sylvia’s head snapped up, eyes darted wildly. Kim saw dark beauty, enhanced by skillful makeup. Sylvia’s eyes met Kim’s, and then she lowered her gaze to the floor and began her finger tapping again.
Kim reached into her pocket and pulled out her camera. She framed the shot and said, “Sylvia?”
The woman looked up and saw the camera. She squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and smiled, revealing bright white teeth offset by shimmering pink lip gloss.
She was posing.
Kim switched the camera to video mode and followed her gut.
“I love your shoes,” she said. “Jimmy Choos, right? They look great on you.”
Girlfriends.
“Thank you,” Sylvia replied, holding her leg out in front, the better to display her stylish footwear. “These are my favorites.” She looked up into Kim’s face again. “Want to try them? Your foot’s really tiny, though.”
“I’d better not,” Kim said, as if the refusal cost her a lot. “They wouldn’t like it.”
They.
Us and them.
Girlfriends.
Sylvia pressed her lips into a firm line, nodded as if to say she understood, and lowered her head again.
Kim asked, “So what happened here?”
Sylvia looked up again. Unsmiling this time, but not distraught. Not like she’d just killed a man whose body still lay in her marriage bed. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. I shot him. I couldn’t take him anymore. That’s all I’m allowed to say.”
“Who told you that?”
“I’m not allowed to say.”
“Well, aside from his horrible taste in interior design, what was wrong with him?”
Sylvia smiled. She didn’t seem to grasp her situation. Maybe there was something wrong with her. Mentally. “I’m not allowed to say,” she repeated, smiling sadly now, as if she had much more she wanted to say, if only she was allowed to, which she wasn’t.
“Did he hurt you? Do something to you?” Kim continued to record. Sylvia knew she was being filmed, but didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t ask for a lawyer or object to the questions. But she didn’t offer any information, either.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Was that a confession? Remorse generally followed when wives killed their husbands, in Kim’s experience.
“About what?” Kim asked.
“That I’m not allowed to say anything.”
Kim heard another car outside. “When do you think you’ll be able to tell us what happened?”
Sylvia asked a question of her own. “What time is it?”
Kim looked at her watch. “It’s one o’clock, give or take.”
“Maybe later this afternoon,” Sylvia said.
“Why then?” Kim
Gaspar had moved farther into the house, observing everything, just as she was. He was taking pictures from time to time.
Of what?
Am I missing something?
Kim recalled Gaspar’s question. What kind of woman had chosen to live in this place? She glanced toward the kitchen and saw the answer right there.
Mrs. Sylvia Black sat on one of the two kitchen chairs, head down. Cuffed hands hung between her knees. She held her palms together, rhythmically opening and closing each set of matched fingers, one set at a time, like a metronome, counting.
Counting what?
She had a recent manicure. She had perfectly shaped nails, quite short, painted pastel pink. She had a large square onyx ring with a silver cable around it on her right index finger, and a smaller turquoise ring by the same designer on her right pinky. She was wearing the kind of black patent sandals that fashionable women covet, and she had a fresh pedicure. Her toenails were polished deep purple. Her yellow silk blouse had a pink and green designer’s monogram. Dark silk slacks tapered smartly down her calf, where an ankle bracelet sat near a yellow rose tattoo.
Then someone made a noise and Sylvia’s head snapped up, eyes darted wildly. Kim saw dark beauty, enhanced by skillful makeup. Sylvia’s eyes met Kim’s, and then she lowered her gaze to the floor and began her finger tapping again.
Kim reached into her pocket and pulled out her camera. She framed the shot and said, “Sylvia?”
The woman looked up and saw the camera. She squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and smiled, revealing bright white teeth offset by shimmering pink lip gloss.
She was posing.
Kim switched the camera to video mode and followed her gut.
“I love your shoes,” she said. “Jimmy Choos, right? They look great on you.”
Girlfriends.
“Thank you,” Sylvia replied, holding her leg out in front, the better to display her stylish footwear. “These are my favorites.” She looked up into Kim’s face again. “Want to try them? Your foot’s really tiny, though.”
“I’d better not,” Kim said, as if the refusal cost her a lot. “They wouldn’t like it.”
They.
Us and them.
Girlfriends.
Sylvia pressed her lips into a firm line, nodded as if to say she understood, and lowered her head again.
Kim asked, “So what happened here?”
Sylvia looked up again. Unsmiling this time, but not distraught. Not like she’d just killed a man whose body still lay in her marriage bed. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. I shot him. I couldn’t take him anymore. That’s all I’m allowed to say.”
“Who told you that?”
“I’m not allowed to say.”
“Well, aside from his horrible taste in interior design, what was wrong with him?”
Sylvia smiled. She didn’t seem to grasp her situation. Maybe there was something wrong with her. Mentally. “I’m not allowed to say,” she repeated, smiling sadly now, as if she had much more she wanted to say, if only she was allowed to, which she wasn’t.
“Did he hurt you? Do something to you?” Kim continued to record. Sylvia knew she was being filmed, but didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t ask for a lawyer or object to the questions. But she didn’t offer any information, either.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Was that a confession? Remorse generally followed when wives killed their husbands, in Kim’s experience.
“About what?” Kim asked.
“That I’m not allowed to say anything.”
Kim heard another car outside. “When do you think you’ll be able to tell us what happened?”
Sylvia asked a question of her own. “What time is it?”
Kim looked at her watch. “It’s one o’clock, give or take.”
“Maybe later this afternoon,” Sylvia said.
“Why then?” Kim
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