Murder on Consignment by Susan Furlong Bolliger Read Free Book Online Page B

married a week from Saturday. I’m her maid of honor.”
    He smiled. “Well, congratulations to Cherry.” He seemed happy. Was I sensing relief in his voice?
    “When’s your big date?” I asked.
    “June.”
    “Good for you. Hope you’ll be happy.” My voice sounded false, even to me.
    I turned to leave, but he gripped my arm and wheeled me around. “ Pippi, I’m sorry.” He paused, searching my face.
    “Don’t be. I’m happy for you, really.”
    “Really?” he asked, moving in closer. His eyes were half-mast, his lips slightly parted. His breath was coming in short shallow rasps. I was feeling that old familiar tingling I’d always felt right before the onset of a passionate kiss.
    We teetered there, suspended in lustful confusion for a few seconds before I decided to make a move. I leaned in, closed my eyes and parted my lips, ready for the familiar warmth I had missed for so long, but all I felt was cold air.
    My eyes snapped open. He’d backed up and was regarding me with what…confusion, fear, amusement? 
    Then, I did something I’d never done before. I slapped him. I’d seen Scarlett do it to Rhett and Sally do it to Harry. Heck, I’d seen it done a thousand times on trashy daytime talk shows, but I had never done it. Quite honestly, I shouldn’t have waited for so long…it felt great.
    I spun on my heel and walked away. I was fed up with Sean and all his hormonal superiority.

     
    Chapter 7
     
    I peeled out of the lot, tires squealing, and junk rattling from every corner of the Volvo. I could hear the sound of glass breaking as I screeched around the corner. Probably the cross-stitch sampler, but I didn’t care.
    I drove straight to the nearest fast food drive-through. Thank goodness, they had switched over from the breakfast menu; I don’t know what I would have done without a double layered hamburger to calm my slap-happy soul. I went to retrieve a couple of bills from my wallet and found them wrapped in a tidy little note reminding me to check my emotions. Well, to heck with my emotions; I was beyond that. I needed a good, old fashioned, high calorie binge. So, just for good measure, I coughed up a couple of more bills and added a chocolate shake and small fries.
    Sufficiently carb-loaded and stuffed with saturated fat, I was feeling better by the time I reached the post office. After shipping my packages, I made my way back to my apartment to unload my car. 
    Exhausted after hauling all my new acquisitions up the steps, I went straight to the kitchen, tore down yet another one of those bothersome “check your emotions” signs, and pulled a soda out of the fridge. I settled in front of my computer, twisted the cap, and let the cool fluid clear my mind. What was going on with Shep? Was he on the run because he’d witnessed a brutal murder? I couldn’t just wait around for Sean to figure it out, I needed to find a few of my own answers.
    I hesitated for a second, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Where to start? The only thing that I’d garnered from the cri me scene was that Jane had recently purchased a large lot of items from an estate sale. The books I found in the garbage were obviously part of that sale, discarded by Jane as she sorted through items. Remembering the marking on the outside of the box I saw in the dumpster, I typed Sokolov into the search engine. Sitting back, I took another sip from my soda as I studied the options on the screen: Sokolov the famous Russian pianist; some law firm in Philly; a Wiki reference to popular Russian surnames… I refined my search by cross-referencing Sokolov and Chicago. All I got was a listing of names. Lots of Sokolovs in the area.
    I went to the Tribune online and accessed the obituary listings. I typed in the name Sokolov and found two references. One was archived May 8th, three years ago. The other was a more recent entry—three weeks ago on the 24th of September. I clicked on it and read the blurb.
    Calina A. Sokolov, age