Murder in the Marketplace by Lora Roberts Read Free Book Online Page A

Emery.” He handed me the plate. "Thought you might like some.”
    “Thanks.” I took the plate from Drake, while Ed drifted after Emery to the back door. The chicken wings were hot, almost too hot to eat, and coated with spices. “They’re great.”
    He took one, too. “I plan to eat as many of these as I can and not bother with dinner,” he announced. “Too bad your niece didn’t come. Then you wouldn’t have to bother either.”
    “How do you know she didn’t come?”
    “Trained eye, my dear.” He plucked a bottle of mineral water from a cooler behind the kitchen door that I hadn’t even seen. “Here.”
    “Thanks.” I sampled the mineral water. “You’re taking such good care of me. Why?”
    “Do I need a reason?” He gave me a one-armed hug. “I’m just keeping you away from the sangria, so you don’t get tipsy before you go out and mingle with the weirdoes.”
    I took a swig of the mineral water and promptly got the hiccups. “Drake,” I hicced, “you mingle with weirdoes every day.”
    “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He pounded me on the back. “I don’t think of you that way at all.”
    I choked. “You—”
    “Oh, you mean in my job.” He was smiling, but it faded. “Just take care of yourself, Liz. There’s a lot of madness out there. I’d hate to be taking a professional interest in you."
    “It’s not even going to be dark for two more hours.” I cleared my throat and wiped my greasy fingers on a napkin. “Actually, I was just leaving.”
    “Liz—”
    “See you, Drake.” I shoved the plate back into his hands, then reached for the last chicken wing. “For the road,” I mumbled, heading back through the living room.
    I waved good-bye to Claudia and Bridget, and went to mount my rusty steed and earn.
     

Chapter 5
     
    The Venus’s-flytrap looked a little wilted. Its tightly clenched spikes reminded me of Amy’s haircut. I firmed the dirt in the small pot and gave it some water from the plastic watering can that sat on Wanda Sorenski’s porch wall, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. I hate feeling responsible when houseplants die. It’s like not taking care of pets. I put the Venus’s-flytrap in the shade; even the late evening sun was hot for a plant in shock.
    Nobody answered when I knocked on Wanda’s door. It was a relief. After trying twice, I could write it off. As a formality, I checked the mailbox to see if the name agreed with my register. With that information, I could call Wanda Sorenski. But if I never spoke to her again, it would be fine by me. I was starting not to care whether my work was satisfactory, as long as I was paid for doing it.
    With that numb-brain attitude, I plodded up the outside stairs to apartment 3. The low sun behind me threw my shadow up the stairs, long and thin. I thought wistfully that it would be nice to be long and thin.
    Someone was home in apartment 3. A man answered the door, spatula in hand, and listened impatiently while I introduced myself. “Can this wait?” He glanced back at the kitchen. A smell of frying onions drifted past my nose, reminding me that the chicken wings had been small and not very filling.
    “I could come back in half an hour or so, after I’ve done a couple of the other apartments.” I was trying to be flexible and accommodating, like we’d been told to be in training.
    “Fine. Fine.” He shut the door, then I heard him throw the deadbolt. Maybe he thought I was a threat to more than his privacy.
    Apartment 4 still didn’t answer; the drapes at the window next to the door were coming off their hooks, and the late afternoon sun illuminated a narrow slice of the living room. I peered through the window, shading the glass with my hand. It was empty, with rectangles on the walls where pictures had hung, and some good-sized stains on the dull beige carpet. I marked it vacant on the register and moved on to apartment 5.
    This time I hit the jackpot. The man who answered the door