Murder in Hindsight by Anne Cleeland Read Free Book Online Page A

episode behind her, and did not like to think that shadowy kingpins had assigned people to monitor her movements—which was foolish; she shouldn’t put her head in the sand, and may as well discover what was afoot. Besides, she owed him a debt of gratitude and her instinct told her he was no danger to her. If anything, he was puzzled, or bemused, or—or something; she was not what he’d expected. Feeling as though she was in a spy movie, she wandered through the aisles, reading the display signs until she located the religion section, which was regrettably unpopulated, although this was probably why it was chosen. She saw the man, thumbing through a Wesleyan tract, and approached to stand beside him. “Are you a Methodist, then? I wouldn’t have pegged it; you are far too handy with your fives.”
    He glanced up at her with a grave expression. “Yes? What does this mean?”
    “It means you pack a decent punch, my friend, and I’m that grateful. What can I do for you?”
    “You are Roman Catholic?”
    Hard to imagine he was here to discuss comparative religions, but she tried gamely to keep up. “Indeed I am.”
    “Yet you are leaving your husband?”
    She raised her brows in surprise. “No. Is that the rumor? Have you been speakin’ to Munoz, by any chance?”
    He shut the book softly. “Who is Munoz?”
    “You ask a lot of questions, for someone who took an oath of silence.”
    This remark indeed silenced him for a moment, and the pale eyes regarded her thoughtfully. I think I am so flippant with him because he is so serious, she thought, and resolved to tread a bit more warily; there was something a bit—cold, was perhaps the right word—about him. Not a gregarious soul, was this fellow.
    “Last night, you were not wearing a wedding ring.”
    “Oh—no, I didn’t want to wear it in that buildin’; it belongs to his family.” Apparently while she was noticing his watch, he was noticing her rings, or lack thereof. “I’m wearin’ it now.” She wiggled a gloved finger.
    For some reason, she sensed that this was good news to him, which seemed a little strange—although he didn’t seem intent on flirtation. But although he gave no outward sign, he was definitely relieved to confirm she wasn’t leaving her husband.
    “Acton.” His accent placed the emphasis on the second syllable.
    “Yes; Acton.”
    The man frowned slightly, remembering. “He is a knocker.”
    “Indeed he is,” she replied gravely. “But do not say that I said.”
    He regarded her in silence, and she wondered what he wanted—it was his secret meeting, after all. Perhaps she should help him get to the point, as she was hungry. “You are related to Gerry Lestrade, I believe.”
    Bull’s-eye; she intercepted a flash of surprise, quickly suppressed. “Who is that?” he asked, and it was a lie.
    She was unsurprised, and a bit philosophical; small blame to him for his wary confusion, if what she suspected was true—that Savoie’s people were worried they’d be treated to another helping of Acton’s misplaced vengeance if anything happened to her. Meeting her rescuer’s eyes, she said with all sincerity, “There is no need to follow me about anymore; all problems have been resolved.” Solonik was in prison, Acton was now aware that he’d been runnin’ amok for no good reason, and so things had settled down. Please God; amen.
    Her companion tilted his head slightly. “What problem has been resolved?”
    Hesitating, she decided she may as well spell it out. “Solonik’s in prison, and the dispute over the smugglin’ rig has—well, has settled.” Best be careful, she didn’t want to make him nervous.
    But apparently she’d guessed wrong, as he tilted his head again in a very European gesture. “You mistake; it was Solonik who asked me to find you.”
    She stared at him in shock for a long moment, completely surprised. “ Solonik sent you?” This did not bode well, but after a moment, she realized what must be