Quickstep to Murder by Ella Barrick Read Free Book Online

tissue.
    “Do you own a gun?” Lissy asked.
    I stopped, tissue halfway to my nose. He didn’t seem to be watching me; he was staring into the fireplace as if wishing he had a dustpan and broom to sweep up ash traces. His question posed a problem. I owned a gun—a graduation gift from Uncle Nico—but it wasn’t registered. Uncle Nico had advised against it, warning that when the Democrats came to power, which he predicted they would, they’d confiscate registered guns. “You don’t want the crooks to be the only ones with firepower, Stasia,” he’d said. “Keep this loaded and keep it where you can get to it. If you ever need to use it, you call me afterward and I’ll help with the cleanup.”
    I’d consciously avoided thinking about what the cleanup might entail, reluctantly accepted the gun, shot it at a range a couple of times under Uncle Nico’s supervision, and tucked it into the bottom drawer of my bedside table. What were the penalties for having an unregistered gun? Did Virginia law require registration? I didn’t know, but I bet that getting caught lying to the police had worse consequences.
    “Yes, I own a gun.” I knew I’d taken too long to answer by the way both detectives stared at me. I bit my lower lip. “It’s just a little one. A .22. My uncle gave it to me. Years ago. For self-protection. He thought the Democrats—” Shut up, I told myself as the line between Lissy’s brows deepened again.
    “When did you last fire it?” Detective Troy asked.
    “I don’t know . . . Seven, eight years ago?”
    “You wouldn’t mind letting us have a look at it?” Lissy said in a tone that said it didn’t matter if I minded or not.
    “Sure.” I unfolded my legs and pushed out of the wing chair, relieved to be able to move, to escape the room and the inscrutable detectives. The rug felt good under my bare feet. “It’ll just take a—”
    “We’ll come with you.” Lissy gestured me toward the door as Troy rose to his feet.
    “It’s in my bedroom.” I hadn’t made my bed this morning and I was pretty sure yesterday’s clothes, including bra and panties, were still in a heap on the floor. How come Mother never told me to keep the house spotless in case homicide detectives might go prowling through it one day?
    “Best place for it,” Detective Troy agreed, either not getting the hint that I didn’t want strange men in my bedroom or deliberately ignoring my embarrassment. “That’s where my sister keeps hers.”
    I padded down the hall to my room, both detectives trailing behind. Troy whispered something to Lissy, but I didn’t catch it. Pushing the door wide, I marched straight to my bedside table, a three-foot-high walnut chest of drawers that used to hold Great-aunt Laurinda’s embroidered hankies and purses carefully wrapped in tissue paper. My knees sank into the carpet’s deep pile as I knelt and yanked open the bottom drawer. I used it for the lingerie items I needed once in a blue moon: the slip that went with a skirt I wore only to funerals, the cami I used under a blouse that never made it back from the cleaners after the last time I wore it, the mint-green hose I’d had to wear as a bridesmaid once. I patted the slippery fabrics, feeling for the hard, alien shape of the gun. When I didn’t feel it, I started tossing the filmy underthings onto the floor, uncaring now about the detectives’ scrutiny. Without looking, I could sense them standing just inside the door, watching, breathing.
    My hand panned fruitlessly against the wooden bottom of the drawer. I flushed with heat; then the blood receded and I shivered. Reaching for my slippers beside the bed, I drew them on. Maybe I’d put the gun in the other drawer. I knew I hadn’t. But I opened it, digging through notebooks, condom packets—probably expired—hand lotions, a sewing kit, and other miscellany. No gun. I tried to remember when I’d last seen it, but couldn’t. I rocked back on my heels and looked over my