Deadly Messengers by Susan May Read Free Book Online Page A

revealed nothing. Kendall imagined it coming any moment: the get-off-my-property-scum-newsperson retort. It surprised her the woman had even come to the door. Surely, she’d already had approaches by dozens of news outlets vying for her story.
    Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Kendall smiled her biggest, brightest, you-can-trust-me smile.
    “A lot of people want to know what it’s like to survive what you went through …” Still nothing from the woman. She quickly added, “And Jennifer Aniston was on last month’s cover.”
    Beverley Sanderson’s face suddenly came to life. Her countenance lit up as though a spotlight was focused on her for a close-up. “Oh, you want to interview me? Is that what you mean?”
    “Ah … yes … if you have time. It’s just a few questions.”
    “Yes, yes. I’m fine. Come in. Jennifer Aniston. Wow!”
    Beverley pulled the door further open, then stood back to allow Kendall to move past her into a mid-seventies style living room, complete with dark brown leather couches and orange flock wallpaper. Most extraordinary were the china dogs. They were everywhere. On every surface, they sat, lounged, heeled, and lay on their stomachs. Bookshelves, on top of the coffee table, and on several purpose-built ledges dotted along the room’s walls.
    “You like dogs, Beverley?”
    “I love dogs. But I can’t have a dog. Allergies. I’ve tried all types of dogs and medications. I just sneeze and sneeze. This is the next best thing.”
    Standing this close to Beverley, Kendall realized the woman was older than she looked in the newspaper picture. She was mid-fifties, and even at ten in the morning her face was plastered with a full complement of makeup. Her hot-pink lipstick combined with dark red lip liner gave her a clown-like appearance. The hair poking out from beneath her scarf was teased to a bushy bouffant.
    “Coffee, Kelsey?”
    She didn’t bother correcting Beverley’s mistake with her name. Something told her no matter how many times she corrected her, Beverley would never get it right.
    “Fantastic, thanks.”
    Kendall glanced around the room, taking care to show an interest in the dogs.
    It surprised her how together the woman was—hardly what she expected after what Beverley had witnessed the previous night. Most people would be distressed for days, even months. If they were like Kendall, years.
    She couldn’t decide if Beverley’s stoic behavior was oddball or admirable. Although, now Kendall thought about it, the woman’s calm perspective would certainly provide great counterbalance to other eyewitnesses—if she could get interviews with them—who weren’t dealing well with the horrific event.
    “I won’t be a moment. I’ve just boiled the kettle.”
    Beverley bounced out of the room. Now alone, Kendall walked slowly around the cluttered space, checking for further insights into the woman. Alongside the dogs were scattered faded photos of children wearing clothes dating them as growing up in the eighties. On the wall behind the three-seater lounge hung a large frame containing variously sized professional portraits of a still overly made-up younger version of Beverley. In her youth she’d been quite striking. Beverley and her husband obviously liked to cruise; many other photos depicted the pair aboard a liner or posing on exotic beaches, a cruise boat in the background.
    “Here we go,” Beverley announced, as she walked back into the room carrying a tray with two mugs, a gilt coffee pot, a matching milk jug and a plate of cream cookies. She fussed over the coffee, pouring two cups and held out the cookies to Kendall with “Have one. I baked them this morning.”
    She smiled at Kendall as though she were a long lost relative and they were about to catch up on lost years. Her demeanor was bizarrely congenial, considering what they were to discuss. In her mind, Kendall began crafting the opening to her article.
     
    “Sometimes survivors carry on without a