Murder on a Bad Hair Day by Anne George Read Free Book Online Page B

say? Claire’s answers were little head shakes.
    “For heaven’s sake, Sister,” I said. “The police will ask all those questions.”
    And they did. In about two minutes, the doorbell rang. For a moment I thought it was Bonnie Blue. The woman standing there was as large as Bonnie Blue, and her skin was as dark. But I realized my mistake immediately. This woman was much younger, maybe thirty, and dressed in a police uniform.
    “Mrs. Crane?” she said. “I’m Bo Mitchell. You have a problem?”
    Bo Mitchell had the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. Fred and I had poured thousands of dollars into our children’s mouths trying to achieve this effect and had missed by a mile.
    I explained that I was Mrs. Hollowell and that Mrs. Crane was my sister and that a friend of ours had been threatened or attacked the night before, I wasn’t sure which, and was right here on my den sofa.
    “May I come in?” Bo Mitchell asked.
    “Of course.” I realized I had been babbling like I do when I’m nervous. At least I wasn’t rhyming like I do sometimes. “Right through here.”
    Claire was sitting up straight with her feet on the floor. She looked exactly like one of those big-eyed, dark-haired children with the sad expressions that you see painted on velvet. Sister had wiped the mascara and dirt from her face, and the pallor of her skin was startling.
    “This is Officer Mitchell.” I introduced Mary Alice and Claire.
    “I thought you policemen always went in twos,” Mary Alice said.
    “Like Noah’s Ark?” Bo Mitchell smiled her fantastic smile. “Not always. Depends.”
    “Can I get you some coffee or Coke?” I asked. Fred says if the Devil himself walked in, I would offer him refreshments. He’s probably right.
    “No, thank you.” Officer Mitchell sat on the sofa beside Claire. “I assume the problem is yours, Ms. Moon?”
    Claire nodded. “Somebody tried to kill me last night.” Her voice was faint but steady. “They were in my apartment with a knife.”
    “Are you okay? Not hurt anywhere?”
    “No. I would have been dead, though, if I’d put the night latch on.”
    “How’s that?”
    “If I’d had to stop to undo it. I heard the knife hit the door.”
    Mary Alice and I looked at each other. Officer Mitchell wrote something on a clipboard. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get some basic information, Ms. Moon. Your address?”
    “Seventeen twenty-nine Valley Trace.”
    “Husband?”
    “He’s dead. He was killed.”
    “Here?”
    “In California. On the freeway.”
    I closed my eyes. I knew, from watching Haley suffer, the grief Claire had gone through.
    “Your age?”
    “Thirty.”
    “Occupation?”
    “I work at an art gallery.” Claire turned and faced Bo Mitchell. “Please, I’m so tired.”
    “I know you are and I’m sorry. This is just routine stuff we have to have, though, before we get to the problem.”
    Claire nodded and sighed.
    “This art gallery,” Officer Mitchell said, “I’ll need its name.”
    “The Mercy Armistead Gallery.”
    Bo Mitchell looked up from her clipboard. “That’s the one where the lady died last night?”
    “Who died?” Claire’s head came up.
    “Mercy Armistead.”
    Claire looked at Mary Alice and me. “Mercy’s dead?”
    We nodded. “Claire,” I began.
    “Mercy’s dead?” Her voice rose to a wail. “Oh, God. They got to Mercy.” Claire stood up, her arms before her face as if warding off blows. And just as quickly as she stood, she fell. The policewoman, in a remarkably agile move, caught Claire and eased her down, saving her from hitting the floor. Sister and I rushed to help.
    “Prop her feet up,” Officer Mitchell said. Mary Alice grabbed pillows from the sofa and placed them under Claire’s feet. I knelt beside Mary Alice and rubbed Claire’s hands, which felt like ice. Her eyes were half open but the pupils weren’t visible. I touched her carotid artery to see if I could feel a pulse. I could. A faint one.
    Bo Mitchell