Harmless by Ernie Lindsey Read Free Book Online Page A

purpose of printing and hiding them in a shoebox.
    For the love of God,
when, when, when did that happen?
    But hang on, I’m
getting ahead of myself.
    After finding Sparkle’s
collar and cursing his traitorous name, I took a deep breath and reconsidered. 
He’d been in good company.  It wasn’t like he’d been out prowling the neighborhood
with a clowder of cats, howling and getting tattoos, chasing little old
ladies. 
    Although, I have
considered the fact that I wouldn’t mind if Sparkle happened to scratch Mrs.
Epstein across the street.  Mailman Jeffrey doesn’t like her, either.  In all
seriousness, she has enough Keep Off the Grass! placards to rival any
godforsaken election year.
    At the foot of the bed,
I froze and looked at the bloody handprints on the floor.
    Two of them.  Kerry’s,
obviously.
    I watched the replay in
my mind.  Kerry, backed up near the window, pleading.  Apologizing for
something.  Begging for mercy.  A handgun raised, a trigger pulled, a sharp crack ,
a hole opening in her chest.  You know how a strobe light flickers in a dark
room and you can only see movements happening to a timed beat?  That’s what I
saw.  Flash, gun, flash, trigger.
    Flash, blood.
    Kerry’s hands going up,
grabbing her chest, stumbling backward.
    But that hadn’t been
enough.  Whoever the shooter was, he must’ve grabbed her, turned her around, and
threw (no, launched ) her out the window.
    What level of fury did
he have to make him do such a thing to such a wonderful person?
    I mentioned that it had
to have been a crime of passion, a momentary explosion of feeling that had
resulted in death.  But really, was that it?  He’d arrived with a gun, so there
was premeditation, but did he actually mean to use it?  Maybe it was just to
threaten her.  Maybe.  Possibly.
    Yet, the more I thought
about it, shooting her hadn’t been enough.  Tossing her out the window—what
that said to me was that he was ridding himself of something.  Like throwing a
bag of garbage down a chute.  It’s done.  It’s gone.  Yes, honey, I took out
the trash. 
    Which meant a history
of something.  Arguments?  Betrayal?  The books in the spare bedroom that
hinted toward a separation, the divorce papers from Wellington &
Wellington, Attorneys at Law—they could have easily pointed to her ex-husband.
    And it was that thought
that led me to searching her dresser first.  There hadn’t been any sort of
paperwork scattered around the kitchen, like the utter, out-of-control mess
that Shayna left behind on a regular basis, often leading to questions such as,
“Steve, would you like to tell me why there’s a charge for forty-seven dollars
from the Hideaway Motel on your credit card statement?”
    There had been no sign
of bookkeeping in Kerry’s spare bedroom, so she had to have the divorce
papers—where I’d find the name of her murderous ex-husband—stashed away
somewhere in the bedroom.
    The dresser seemed like
a logical choice. 
    It hadn’t been the best
spot for me to store things.  I learned that late in my failed
marriage.  I mean, you know me, I’m smart, but sometimes haste erases the
benefit of good judgment.  Here’s another question I heard, and picture this in
a tone so disgusted, you’d think I’d eaten someone’s puppy: “Steve, are you
seriously stupid enough to keep porn stashed in your sock drawer?  
I mean, for God’s sake, if you’re going to hide it, at least put it in a place
I don’t look in at least three times a week .”
    I found socks in the
top drawer.  Mostly athletic ones, the kind that come up to your ankle, two
sets of pantyhose, one black and one flesh-tone, and a pair of white, knee-high
stockings trimmed with lace.  For a moment, I got this mental image of Clarence
drooling over Kerry wearing nothing more than those knee-highs and a set of
heels.  I’m fairly certain that the combination of jealousy and disgust caused
me to dry heave, just a little.
    I slammed