Family Practice by Charlene Weir Read Free Book Online

held out her ID, but the young woman ignored it.
    â€œIs something wrong?”
    At first glance she looked like a teenager, but a closer look showed her to be early twenties. “Your name?”
    â€œEllen.”
    â€œEllen—?”
    â€œBarrington.”
    Ah. The youngest of the siblings. “May we come in? We’d like to speak with Mr. Talmidge.”
    â€œTaylor?” Something skittered behind the dark eyes, but was gone too fast for Susan to get a fix on it.
    â€œIs he here?”
    â€œYes. Come in.”
    They stepped into a wide foyer with pink floral wallpaper, a padded bench covered in pale-green-striped silk, and a writing desk with a potted plant; just inside the door was a bright-green umbrella stand. They followed Ellen into the living room, large and high-ceilinged, with a row of windows that looked out onto a back garden. Despite the late-afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows, the room seemed dark: heavy dark-rose draperies, velvet Victorian sofas in the same dark color, wing chairs and upright wooden chairs with carved legs and backs, and padded pale-pink seats. Small tables of dark, carved wood sat by the sofas and chairs and between the windows, holding vases, plants, and cut-glass bowls. A somber painting hung above the fireplace of a stream overshadowed by menacing trees. Through an archway, Susan saw a Queen Anne dining table and a tall, glass-fronted cupboard filled with china.
    â€œEllen?” A tall man, smooth, polished, with straight, dark hair silvering at the temples, prominent nose, and strong jaw, came through the archway. “Was that the door?” He wore a white dress shirt, subdued tie, and fashionably pleated brown trousers.
    â€œMr. Talmidge?” Susan said.
    He looked at her with the deceptively amused expression that conceals contempt. “Yes? What can I do for you?”
    â€œWe’d like to have a word with you.”
    He flicked a glance at Ellen. “Certainly. What is this about?”
    â€œIt’s about your wife.”
    The appraising look disappeared, and an opaque mask slipped over his face. “What about her?”
    He had something to hide. Not necessarily that he’d shot his wife, but something.
    â€œShe’s still at the office,” Ellen said.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Susan said. She’d never figured out a way to say this. No matter how she tried to ease into it, she brought news of death, and it was devastating. “Dorothy Barrington was shot this afternoon.” She watched Taylor Talmidge’s face. The spouse, or any variation thereof, was immediately suspect in a homicide. “She died almost instantly.”
    He seemed to stagger, threw a look at Parkhurst, who nodded in confirmation. Talmidge turned and stared out a window at the sunlit grass. She felt momentarily sorry for him, for his loss and for what lay ahead. Even small-town gossip was nothing compared to being under the microscope of a homicide investigation. His whole life would be open to scrutiny.
    Ellen, white-faced, took in air with a sharp gasp and then seemed to stop breathing entirely. She stumbled back onto a sofa, crossed her arms, and clutched them to her chest.
    â€œWhy?” Talmidge whispered hoarsely. “Why did this happen?”
    â€œThat’s what we need to find out.”
    Leaning forward, he covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook with an attempt at control. He mumbled to himself, and she strained to make out the words.
    â€œIt couldn’t have—” was all she could hear.
    She and Parkhurst waited silently for him to regain his composure. Ellen sat frozen, her eyes blank.
    â€œWhat do you want me to do?” Talmidge said dully. He took a handkerchief from a back pocket and wiped his face before turning toward them.
    Parkhurst said, “If you could sit down, sir. We need to ask some questions.”
    â€œI don’t understand.” Talmidge slumped in