Hanging by a Thread by Monica Ferris Read Free Book Online

same gun killed both of them. Paul wouldn’t murder Angela, he was crazy about her.”
    Vern shifted his weight in his chair, settling in for an argument. “Same gun, sure—but it could’ve been Paul’s gun. He had one, you know that.”
    “Then where is it?”
    “I told you, Malloy lost it. And crazy is the right word. You said it yourself, he called her every five minutes when she wasn’t at home, checking up on her. He liked her to stay at home, and he worked at home so he could be right there with her. He hated it when she took that job at the bookstore, so he took a job right down the street. They didn’t need the money she brought in; I think she wanted out of the house because he was smothering her. Ten, eleven years they was married, and was like they’d gotten married last week. It wasn’t love, it was more like he was obsessed. And he was getting worse, not better. He was always thinking she was having an affair, which it turned out she was, though where she found the time I don’t know. But I don’t blame her. So okay, he found out, and he shot her. I thought from the start he done it.”
    By the unheated tones of the argument, Betsy was sure this was an old, often-rehashed one.
    Jory said, “Nope, you’re wrong. Once Foster Johns admitted he and Angela were messing around, I knew it was Foster who killed her. Why the hell our police couldn’t prove something as open and shut as that, I don’t know.”
    Vern shook his head. “If Foster was in love with Angela, why in hell would he kill her?”
    “Lover’s quarrel. Or because she wanted to break it off. One or the other, plain as the nose on your face.”
    “The only thing plain—” began Vern.
    Betsy intervened. “All right, all right. I understand you two don’t agree. But suppose it wasn’t suicide, and it wasn’t Foster who killed Paul, either. Do you have any idea who else might have wanted him dead?”
    “Don’t you say it!” Vern said suddenly to his son, who had opened his mouth.
    Jory obediently didn’t say it. Instead he said, faux innocently, “What were you thinking I’d say, Dad?”
    “You know what I’m talking about, and I won’t have it said in my presence, I don’t care if you are my son.” His glare intensified. “Blood’s thicker than water, no matter what he’s done.”
    “Are you talking about Alex?” she asked.
    “I never said a word, and I won’t,” said Jory, his expression truculent. “Anyhow, it was Foster. I knew all along it was Foster.”
    “Please don’t say things like that when I’m in the same room with you,” said Vern. “One of these days you’ll say that and the roof will fall in on you, an’ it might take me along, too. You told me yourself right after Angela’s murder that you thought Paul did it, and you even predicted Paul would either be arrested or kill hisself in the next couple days. You said it happens all the time, men killing their women, then themselves.”
    “I did not ”
    “Dammit, yes, you did!”
    “Well, all right, maybe I did, but just at first. Then we found out what really happened, only the cops couldn’t prove it, and we end up living in a town where a murderer walks the streets!” Jory threw a disgusted look at his father, a half-shamed look at Betsy; and walked out.

5
    T he Monday Bunch was again in session. The weather had warmed enough to rain, but gale-force winds made it rattle against the front window of Crewel World like hail. “Raincoats and umbrellas for the trick-or-treaters this year,” noted Martha.
    “If they go out trick-or-treating at all,” said Bershada. “My grandkids haven’t since they were toddlers, and then it was just going around inside the apartment building they lived in.”
    It was Halloween. In honor of the holiday, Betsy had made a five-gallon urn of hot spiced cider for her customers, and all five members present had a steaming cup in front of them. Despite the holiday— or perhaps because of it—every one of