Little Black Book of Murder by Nancy Martin Read Free Book Online Page A

smile frozen in place. She had the Rattigan pinkness, too—­along with the piggy nose she had learned to camouflage with makeup so that she looked more like a sexy cherub than a pig.
    She headed straight for me. “Nora! I haven’t seen you in ages! Are you enjoying the party, dear?”
    â€œMarybeth,” I managed to say. “What a surprise.”
    â€œNo kidding,” she said as she hugged me close and breathed whiskey fumes all over me. “You’re not the only one who’s surprised.”
    In her hand, she carried a short-­barreled antique musket.
    Trying to remain calm, I said lightly, “If you’re here to frighten your ex-­husband, let me get out of the way first, will you?”
    She laughed in a hard voice. “Don’t worry. My marksmanship is pretty good.”
    Trying to maintain a cheery expression, I said, “Are you going to make a scene?”
    â€œStick around and watch.”
    With that, she spun ­toward her husband, who was warily pushing through the crowd to reach his ex-­wife.
    Marybeth exploded. “You son of a bitch!” Her voice carried over the heads of a hundred people. “Do you really think I’m going to let you get away with this?”
    â€œPlease, Marybeth, let’s be reasonable—”
    â€œReasonable? You’re stealing decades of my family’s hard work. I want what’s mine! Where’s the pig?”
    â€œDarling—”
    â€œStill walking funny, Swain?” she asked nastily. “Let’s see if I can make it even funnier.”
    Marybeth shouldered the musket. The crowd around us gasped. But nobody ran, nobody screamed. Everyone fell silent—­frightened, yes, but also full of horrified anticipation.
    Over the resulting quiet, Marybeth shouted, “My grandfather bred that boar through years and years of careful planning. And I’ve spent a decade refining the breed. If you think you can snatch him from us just as you walk away from thirty-­five years of marriage, you weren’t paying attention, you asshole. Where is he? Where’s our pig?”
    Swain tried to sound placating. “He went missing. You know that.”
    â€œBullshit! You’re hiding him!”
    He put his hands out as if to stop Marybeth from firing the weapon. “I’ve told you over and over—”
    â€œPigs just don’t fall off trucks and disappear,” Marybeth snapped from behind the musket. “You’re hiding a valuable animal so you can cash in on my family one more time.”
    A tiny noise came from behind me. I sneaked a cautious glance over my shoulder in time to see Zephyr come out of the barn with a single, somewhat gnarled tomato cradled in her hand. Looking like a tall, graceful angel in the sunlight, she drew every eye.
    Marybeth’s face turned scarlet, and her thinly controlled composure cracked. She swung the weapon away from Swain and took aim past my shoulder at Zephyr.
    The whole crowd recognized her change of heart. Everyone surged away, shrieking in panic. Some threw themselves to the ground—others bolted for the parked cars. Swain Starr shouted.
    Marybeth pulled the trigger.
    But in the split second before the gun went off, Gus Hardwicke made a flying leap out of the crowd. He knocked the musket from her hands and tackled her to the ground.
    I felt something deadly whistle past my ear and go harmlessly across the pasture.
    Damn, I thought.
    Now I owed my life to Gus Hardwicke.

CHAPTER THREE

    N obody was hurt. The family shooed us away. The guests obediently headed for their cars, all sorry the party had ended on such a sour note, yet giddy they’d witnessed what could have become a newsworthy incident.
    Except, Swain assured everyone, “There’s no need to call the police. It was a misunderstanding. Nothing to worry about.”
    Gus drove me home in his convertible. “I should have let that nutter shoot Zephyr.