Death of the Office Witch by Marlys Millhiser Read Free Book Online Page B

They’re carnivores like us.” She looked pointedly at the bloody juice on the platter, all that was left of a hunk out of a buffalo.
    Doug then explained with the restrained patience teenagers reserve for adults that Mrs. Beesom’s bird feeders attracted birds. Birds attracted cats. It was all in the nature of things, and Tuxedo shouldn’t be blamed for his nature. Any more than Charlie should be blamed for stopping at the gourmet deli on the way home and picking up buffalo steaks. How that kid always managed to put her on the defensive Charlie would never know.
    They’d eaten on Charlie’s patio, and she stretched out on the chaise longue with her coffee. It felt wonderful to put her feet up. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Beesom. We’ve been nothing but trouble for you since we moved in.”
    â€œWell, life has been more exciting, that’s for sure,” the old lady said bleakly. Jeremy and Maggie exchanged snide glances. Mrs. Beesom’s life revolved around her church, her birds, television, and keeping close track of her neighbors. Maggie swore that the woman went through their garbage to discover their personal habits.
    The Beesoms had once lived in an old house in the center of this lot, and when Mr. Beesom died, a developer talked his wife into selling it for one of the new houses he’d build. She was a small woman with a large stomach she kept covered with smocklike tops over polyester pants. Her thinning hair had turned from gray to white, but she seemed to have a fair amount of energy.
    â€œI saw on the news tonight about the woman in your office that was murdered. It must be awful for you, Charlie,” she led the way to the topic everyone had been too polite to bring up over buffalo.
    â€œYeah I know, and here I am celebrating,” Charlie admitted. “But the whole agency would be tonight if it wasn’t for Gloria and the police running around and everybody having to avoid reporters.”
    As she’d told them at dinner, this Alpine Tunnel project was one she’d brought with her from New York when she’d come to Congdon and Morse. The only best-selling author Charlie had ever represented died after one book, and Charlie lost the account to another agent when the estate took over the rights. But the literary agency where she worked in New York, Wesson Bradly, often used Congdon and Morse as its Hollywood connection, and Charlie served as liaison. So when Richard Morse went after Alpine Tunnel for a now-defunct independent production company, he used Charlie to begin negotiations with the author’s estate through the new agent. The publisher got into it and decided on a new huge printing to tie in with the film, but the indie went under, the author’s family hadn’t liked the screenplay, and Goliath had brought out a similar historical that flopped like a beached salmon.
    When Richard talked Charlie into coming out to work for him, the deal had a little life left because McMullins was still interested in the tie-in and had interested another indie, Ursa Major, in the deal. McMullins and Ursa Major brought Congdon and Morse and Charlie back into the picture, another screenplay was written, excitement mounted once more. And last October the family had said no. Flat out.
    Last week the book’s editor hinted that something was yet again in the wind, but Charlie had kept it quiet. And yesterday the deal was on again, but Congdon and Morse found out a day late because somebody murdered Gloria.
    The night was warm and soft and filled with the sweet, tangy scent of lemon blossoms. Charlie could just hear the ocean over the traffic and emergency sirens. Jeremy sprawled on the other chaise fondling Connie with one hand and Tuxedo with the other. One of them was purring.
    â€œWhat’s all this witch business?” Jeremy asked. His eyes were open wide and seemed to glow in the city-dark like the cat’s. “Was it some kind of a