No Way to Kill a Lady by Nancy Martin Read Free Book Online

“Isn’t it obvious? This must be the caretaker. The housekeeper.”
    â€œPippi,” I gasped. “Oh, God, the poor thing.”
    â€œThe electricity must have gone out. She was trapped in the elevator.”
    â€œAnd she died?” Emma sounded as appalled as I felt. “Of starvation?”
    Libby burst into tears all over again.
    The sheriff’s deputy and some of the lawyers arrived then, all of them exclaiming in loud voices.
    â€œSomeone call 911,” Sutherland finally barked, which made Emma laugh.
    â€œIt’s a little late for an ambulance,” she said.
    Deputy Foley took charge. With the bluster of youth, he ordered us all to step away from the open elevator. Sutherland, he said, should stick around to provide information.
    â€œThe rest of you should go outside. We must preserve the crime scene.”
    His official manner was slightly spoiled by the way Libby clung to his arm. He finally seemed to notice how beautiful she looked when distraught, but he hastily handed her off to me. I helped Libby into the next room and eased her onto a dusty sofa. I patted her hands while she tried to pull herself together.
    A moment later, Emma joined us in the salon. “I’m famished,” she announced. “And any minute I’ll have to pee again. What do you say we blow this joint?”
    â€œWe need to stay,” I said. “The police will want to talk to us.”
    â€œWhat can we tell them that Foley can’t? I’m hungry.”
    â€œAren’t you the least bit shocked?” Libby asked, still dabbing at her mascara with a hankie.
    â€œI get hungry all the time. Nothing shocking about it anymore.”
    â€œThat’s not what I—­oh, never mind.”
    I could see Libby was in no shape to make sensible observations for the police. Besides, I was a little worried how she might react to the arrival of even more testosterone when more cops showed up.
    â€œEveryone else saw exactly what we saw,” Emma said. “Let’s clear out.”
    â€œYes, let’s go.” Libby tucked her hankie into her cleavage, where it immediately disappeared as if down a bottomless crevasse. “I could use a restorative beverage. It’s not too early for a margarita, is it?”
    The three of us went outside. That’s when we remembered we’d arrived in Deputy Foley’s cruiser, so we were stuck for transportation.
    â€œWe’ll have to walk,” I said.
    â€œIn these shoes?” Libby protested. She teetered on a pair of heels probably bought from the back page of a Victoria’s Secret catalog.
    The three of us were staring at Libby’s inappropriate footwear when we heard a rhythmic clip-­clop and the merry jingle of harness. Then four perfectly matched black horses burst out of the woods, pulling Cinderella’s coach into Quintain’s storybook landscape.
    â€œWhat in the world—­?” I started.
    Emma said, “I’ll be damned. It’s Shirley van Vincent.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œVincente van Vincent’s wife. The diplomat? The retired diplomat, that is. She’s the horse fanatic. She used to be the world champion driver in coach-­and-­four competitions. She’s hosting the big international preliminary next week, hoping to make a comeback. The van Vincent Classic.” Emma waved her arm in the air as if flagging a taxicab. “I bet she’s training right now. Maybe she’ll give us a lift into town. Hey, Shirley!”
    The magnificent coach glinted with polish. The wooden wheels, painted with yellow trim, flashed in the sunlight as they spun through the fallen leaves. The horses—­all immaculately groomed and stepping in precise rhythm—­bowed their heads as they approached. A pair of Dalmatians completed the picture by trotting in the wake of the coach.
    On the driver’s box, a spritely old lady in an emerald green Tyrolean hat