Full Frontal Murder by Barbara Paul Read Free Book Online

sent this self-important little nudnik to meet me, talked about himself all the way from the airport to this hotel, whatever it is.” Marian could hear a rustling of papers, and Kelly read off the name of the hotel and a phone number. “I haven’t seen Abby James and Ian Cavanaugh yet. The studio found a bungalow for me, but it won’t be ready for another two days. Exactly what is a bungalow anyway? A log cabin without plumbing and electricity? At least I won’t have to chop wood for the fire—it’s hot as blazes here. Call me when you get home, Toots.”
    Holland came out of the shower as Marian was punching out the number of Kelly’s hotel. The voice on the other end of the phone said Ms Ingram had gone out; Marian left a message that she’d call tomorrow.
    â€œShouldn’t she be prostrate from jet lag about now?” Holland asked, toweling his hair dry.
    â€œI don’t think anyone ever told Kelly about jet lag. She probably found herself a dancing partner.”
    He grimaced. “There is such a thing as too much energy.”
    â€œNot for Kelly. When she’s in in her eighties and on Medicare, she’ll still be dancing.”
    Their food arrived. They took it out on the balcony; the lights in the park had come on, and they were high enough up that the sounds of traffic were muted. When they’d finished eating, Holland moved his chair next to hers and sat with one hand resting lightly on her thigh. They were both silent.
    The thought occurred to Marian that this was a time she’d someday look back on as one perfect moment in her life, as she lazed there on the balcony of an expensive Central Park West apartment on a mild summer night. She was sated with food and drink and sex. She had good friends and good, meaningful work. Her health was good.
    And Holland was with her. Everything was better when Holland was with her.
    She was happy.
    The next morning she opened “her” closet and found only one outfit left. “You know, I haven’t been to my place in over a week,” she said to Holland. “I’m out of clothes.”
    â€œWe’ll do laundry tonight,” he replied. “A nice, ‘sharing’ kind of domestic chore. And such fun.”
    â€œHmm. No, I need to go home.”
    He placed one hand on his chest in a theatrical gesture. “You wound me to the quick. I thought this was your home.”
    â€œIt’s my other home. But I haven’t even checked my mail lately.” She looked at her one remaining outfit critically, a lightweight summer suit that came with a skirt instead of trousers—the reason she’d left it to last. Marian still thought of the suit as new; but in the sunlight it was obvious that the suit’s new days were long gone. The NYPD had a dress code for its detectives, a fact that had never been any particular problem before. But now that she was a lieutenant, she had to pay more attention to her clothing than she really cared to do. Marian hated shopping.
    She dressed and started the coffee while Holland hacked a melon in two. His day didn’t start as early as hers, but he never slept in when she was there. They’d almost finished eating when one of their pagers went off in the bedroom.
    â€œYours,” said Holland.
    â€œHow can you tell?”
    â€œHigher pitch.”
    Marian the Tone-Deaf sighed and went into the bedroom. She clicked off the pager and called in.
    When she went back to the kitchen, Holland said, “There’s been a break in a case and you have to go in right now.”
    She laughed and said, “Again, how can you tell?”
    â€œYour walk. You have a Marian walk and a Lieutenant Larch walk. You’re walking like a cop now.”
    â€œGod, I hate being so transparent.” They exchanged no casual good-bye kiss; that would have been a little too domestic.
    Time to shift gears back to the Galloways.
    It wasn’t a break in