Murder at the Azalea Festival by Ellen Elizabeth Hunter Read Free Book Online

those fancy temperature-controlled wine refrigerators. To my right, a sunroom ran the width of the house and I walked its length back to a rear hallway that connected to the foyer--ring-around-a-rosy.
    In the master suite, I tapped a light switch just inside the door, causing all the lamps to blaze at once. Here, everything was soft in pale golds and greens, very pretty and feminine, but also in a frenzy so that I couldn't see the top of the bed for all the gowns heaped upon it. Evidently, Mindy had tried on several garments before selecting the pink satin gown. The rejected dresses puffed up on the bed like a multi-colored parachute someone had discarded. A body could be hidden under all that silk and lace and I'd never know it.
    Now why had I thought that? Maybe because it's a little spooky in here, I reasoned, and I'm all alone in another person's house--a person who is lying helpless in the hospital, unable to prevent me from prowling around her bedroom.
    From the top shelf of a closet--there were two and they were huge and I couldn't help comparing them to the tiny, old fashioned closets in my house and feeling deprived--I pulled down an overnight bag.
    In the bathroom I loaded the case with toiletry items, hair brush, toothbrush, perfume, all the things I thought Mindy might like to have when she awoke.
    I found a pretty nightgown and robe on a silk-padded hanger and zipped them into a garment bag. Now where were her slippers?
    Family pictures in antique silver frames covered most of the available surfaces in the room. Above the bed hung an ornately framed portrait of Mindy that must have been painted when she made her debut.
    There were pictures of Janet and Nem, and their sons, Hugh and Nehemiah the Fourth, and pictures of the family as a whole, all five of them. Mindy was the little princess, the cherished baby sister. And in other snapshots, the Chesterton boys with their cousins. And a photo of Mindy with Jimmy Ryder, their arms wrapped around each other, an ocean behind them that was too blue to be the Atlantic. The Gulf of Mexico?
    Slippers, I reminded myself. I looked around the room, finally spotting a pair of white silk ballet slippers under Mindy's desk. She must have toed them off when she'd been sitting at the computer.
    It was turned on, humming, calling me to it like a siren's song. Mindy had not exited out of the program she'd been using earlier. Living alone, there was no need to hide anything.
    I pulled out the chair and faced the screen. Quicken. I use it for my own accounts.
    The colorful screen seemed to invite, scroll me, please, and as it asked nicely, I complied.
    Mindy, who had always seemed like such an airhead to me, apparently managed her own money. I couldn't help being impressed. How often do we hear of actors and actresses who turn their large salaries over to financial managers, only to be ripped off and left destitute.
    Wow! The deposits to Mindy's account were enormous. I knew actors made a bundle, but seeing those healthy monthly deposits made me wonder if I had chosen the wrong profession, if I ought not enroll in an acting class. Flipping through the pages, I learned that Mindy paid her bills on the first and the fifteenth. Mortgage and utilities on the first. Credit cards on the fifteenth.
    She'd also withdrawn twenty thousand dollars in cash on the first of April. I scrolled back. There were identical entries on the first of every month. Cash. Twenty thousand. What had that been for? And why cash? How had she carried it around? Or did she? Maybe she was paying it to someone who didn't want a record of the transaction. But who? And why?
    The telephone rang somewhere in the house, and Mindy's answering machine intercepted, her seductive voice inviting the caller to leave a message.
    Suddenly, I felt uncomfortable, my conscience warning me this was private stuff and none of my business.
    I knelt down and squeezed under the desk to retrieve the slippers. Smacking my head hard on the