How to Succeed in Murder by Margaret Dumas Read Free Book Online

describe anything about Inspector Yahata,” Jack said dryly.
    True. The detective had the ability to send an electric shock through a room merely by glancing around it. Cozy he was not.
    “Well, whatever. Why did he give you Clara Chen’s autopsy report?”
    “Because I asked for it.” Jack took the Broadway exit off Highway 101, turning toward the rarified zip code of Hillsborough, where Harry lived in high style and near-seclusion.
    “Seriously? He isn’t asking you to look into it?”
    “Pumpkin, why would a homicide detective ask a private citizen to look into anything? And beyond that, didn’t you read the report? There’s nothing to look into.”
    “That’s what they say,” I sniffed.
    “‘They’ meaning the medical examiner’s office and the police force? The skilled professionals who concluded that Clara Chen’s death was accidental?”
    “Well.” I shifted in my seat. “Yes. But did you tell Yahata about everything Morgan Stokes told us? About how she was an athlete and wouldn’t have fallen like that? About how she was in line to get a major chunk of power at Zakdan?”
    “Charley.” Jack came to a stop at a red light on El Camino. He turned to face me. “Morgan Stokes is a grieving man. Of course he doesn’t want to believe these kinds of things can just happen. But they do. You know they do.”
    He was right. I knew all about accidents. Like the one that had taken my parents and left me in the care of my lunatic uncle.
    I blinked. “Jack, seriously. Do you believe it was an accident?”
    He looked at the stoplight. “I believe there’s no proof it was anything else.”
    We drove the rest of the way in silence.
    ***
    Harry’s rambling pile of stucco and tile looked even bigger than usual in the cold January night. I’d been coming there for twenty years, but I could still swear I heard the guitar solo to “Hotel California” whenever I saw the place by moonlight.
    Only a few of the windows were lit in the front of the house, and Harry hadn’t put a light on over the massive oak doors.
    I shivered. “It’s spooky out tonight.” The surrounding eucalyptus trees were whipping in a suddenly strong wind.
    “Don’t worry, this neighborhood is way too expensive for anything really scary.”
    Jack rang the bell and I considered telling him about the time I’d accidentally walked in on Harry, three cheerleaders for the 49ers, and chimpanzee named Sam. Now that had been scary.
    When there was no answer, I dug around in my bag for my keys. I unlocked the door calling my uncle’s name.
    We entered the great room, which, without Harry in it, seemed even larger than usual. It stretched the length of the house, with comfortable clusters of Mission style furniture arranged in groups across the wide expanse of plank floor.
    “Harry!” Jack called. He moved forward to turn on a light. The room was dim, amber-shaded lamps providing only occasional pools of glowing light. It reminded me of a deserted museum you’d see in a horror movie, all quiet right before the monster leaps out.
    “Do you think he’s all right?” I suddenly felt guilty for not calling Harry more often. He was alone now in his giant house. His only daughter, pushing thirty and still acting out her teenage rebellion, had run off again months ago and hadn’t been heard from since. This time Harry—uncharacteristically—hadn’t hired private detectives to track her down.
    I’d been so busy with the Rep during the season that I hardly ever spared him a thought. He’d been such a source of annoyance for most of my life that it was jarring to think of him all by himself and getting older. And even more jarring to find myself feeling a little sorry for him.
    Poor Harry. He must be so lonely. He must be so—
    “Well Goddamn! I didn’t hear you two come in!”
    He crashed through the door from the dining room with a fat cigar in his mouth, wearing khaki cargo shorts and a loud tropical shirt. He held up two large bags of