FM for Murder by Patricia Rockwell Read Free Book Online Page A

dear.”
    “I’m thinking,” she mused, as she distributed silverware around their dining room table, “of the likelihood of this being some random killing? You know, someone just going crazy and stopping by the radio station and shooting the first person they see. When Charlotte was killed last year, everyone thought that was what happened at first. They couldn’t imagine anyone intentionally killing her. Now this killing, to me seems even less like a random shooting. What do you think?”
    “I don’t know,” he answered, “I’m not really thinking about it—other than it’s awful.” He reached in the cupboard and brought out several bottles of spices.
    “It seems quite premeditated to me,” she said, stopping at the table and staring out the dining room window. The leaves outside were swirling and the wind was whipping up. This was about as much winter as they got this far south. She often wished they would just once in a while get a little bit of snow. It would make December seem truly Christmas-y.
    “How so?”
    “If a madman goes crazy, he’s more likely to go someplace where there’s lots of people. This killer went to an out of the way radio station where only one person was working late on a Saturday night. For all he knew, nobody would be there.”
    “Not true,” answered her husband, reaching into the oven and peeking at his peach cobbler that had been bubbling and sending out a heavenly aroma now for at least an hour. “If the killer followed the station’s programming schedule, he would know exactly what time people would be there.”
    “Which would mean premeditation, right?” she asked, continuing to place plates and glasses at the three spots around the table.
    “I suppose,” responded Rocky, now plating items in serving bowls. “Can you get Angie? I’ve about got this all ready.”
    “I’m here,” announced their sleepy daughter, stretching her arms and yawning as she sauntered down the hallway, followed by Candide.
    “Homework?” asked her mother, placing salt and pepper shakers in the center of the table.
    “Done. One two-page essay for English. Twenty-four boring problems for Math, and a fill-in-the blank conversation about railroad stations for French: ‘Est-ce que le train pour Rouen départ a dix heures?’ Doesn’t that all sound exciting?” asked Angie, wearing jeans and a neatly pressed t-shirt and her newest pair of sneakers. Her hair was combed and clean.
    “Your timing is perfect,” said Rocky, bringing the serving dishes to the dining room. “Dinner is served. Have a seat.” He placed the dishes on the table. There was a glistening pork roast with a raisin sauce, broccoli almondine, mashed potatoes with garlic, and, of course, the cobbler for dessert. Yes, thought Pamela, she could not skip the gym tomorrow.
    “You’re rather dressed up for a Sunday dinner at home,” said Pamela to her daughter.
    “I’m going out later,” responded Angela, piling food on her plate. It annoyed Pamela (although she would never say it) how her thin daughter could eat anything and never gain an ounce of fat. Candide sat expectantly by Angela’s chair, primed for any falling morsels.
    “Where are you going?” asked Rocky. “It’s a school night.”
    “Just to the library,” answered Angela. “Kent’s picking me up in a little bit.”
    “The purple-haired kid?” prodded her father, an annoyed sharpness to his voice. “The one who takes you to murder scenes?”
    “Dad!” said Angela, sneering. “I thought we went over all of this.”
    “We did, Angie,” said Pamela, placing her hand on Rocky’s arm and giving him a stern look. “Remember, dear, Kent is my graduate assistant. He’s very responsible and conscientious. We agreed to that I thought.”
    “All right. All right,” Rocky answered, sighing and tearing into his pork with gusto.
    “Did they find the guy who killed Black Vulture?” asked his daughter.
    “Who?” asked Rocky, almost choking on