Rest Ye Murdered Gentlemen by Vicki Delany Read Free Book Online Page A

air.
    I only had a moment to think that perhaps I should have tied him to a bigger tree before a powerful light shone in my face.
    â€œIt’s you,” said the high-pitched voice of Officer Candy Campbell. “I should have known.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?” I lifted my hand, trying to shield my face. I peeked out from between my fingers. Two paramedics had followed Candy. They crouched on either side of Nigel, blocking my view, and spoke in low, efficient voices as they examined the still figure.
    â€œDon’t move him,” Candy said. The light shifted and I could see again. The medics were preparing to load Nigel onto a backboard they’d brought with them. No stretcher would be able to get through the deep snow.
    â€œHe’s gotta get to the hospital, stat,” one of the medics said. He shouted a stream of initials and numbers into his radio.
    â€œHe’s dead. VSA,” Candy said. “The detectives will want to examine him in situ.” VSA, I knew, meant “vital signs absent.”
    â€œThey ain’t dead until they’re warm and dead,” the medic replied. “Don’t they teach you that in police college?”
    â€œI don’t think . . .” Candy began.
    â€œI don’t much care what you think.” The medic was an older guy, well into his fifties. I suspected he’d seen and done it all. He probably chewed up small-town cops and spat them out before breakfast. “Let’s go. If we get him to the hospital fast enough, the docs might be able to bring him back. Hey! You over there.” He shouted and waved toward a group of firefighters trudging through the snow to see if they could help. “We need a lift here.”
    Quickly and efficiently, the two medics rolled Nigel, still draped in my coat, onto the board, and the firefighters lifted it.
    While Candy spluttered, Mattie barked, and I watched, they took the reporter from
World Journey
magazine away.
    â€œWhat do you know about this?” Candy turned to me.
    â€œMe? Absolutely nothing. I was out for a walk with the dog before turning in. We found him.” I pointed toward the body-sized indentation in the snow. “There. Like that.”
    â€œWhy’s he wearing your coat, Merry?”
    â€œBecause I hoped to warm him up.”
    She placed her hands on her laden equipment belt and eyed me suspiciously. “You expect me to believe that?”
    â€œOf course I expect you to believe that. Because it’s the truth.”
    She swung her flashlight onto the patch of snow melting in the warmth of poor Nigel Pearce’s last meal. “Is that yours?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAre you sure? Did you kill him, Merry, and then, shocked at what you did, were you sick?”
    â€œHey!” I said.
    I might have gone on to say something I would have regretted, but we were interrupted by the arrival of another uniformed officer, followed by a woman casually dressed in jeans and a brown leather jacket.
    On the street, a line of official vehicles was forming as colorful lights shone on the snow. Loud voices broke the silence, and more people were trudging across the park toward us.
    â€œAre you the person who phoned this in?” the leather-jacketed woman asked me.
    â€œYes. I’m Merry Wilkinson.”
    She was in her forties, attractive with wide green eyes and curly red hair, long legs, and the hint of a trim figure under her winter clothes. “I’m Detective Simmonds. Tell me what happened.”
    â€œI suspect . . .” Candy began.
    â€œThank you, Officer,” Simmonds said. “I’ll be taking your statement shortly. In the meantime, some crowd control might be in order.”
    â€œBut I’d rather . . .”
    â€œSuch as that gentleman approaching,” the detective said.
    Russ Durham was picking his way through the snow. He lifted his camera and began snapping. I made a