The Best American Mystery Stories 2016 by Elizabeth George Read Free Book Online

water.
    â€œDear,” a voice came from behind Penny. A voice just like Mrs. Stahl’s.
Could she throw her voice?
    Swiveling around, she saw the landlady standing in the courtyard, a few feet away.
    It was as if she were a witch, a shapeshifter from one of the fairy tales she’d read as a child.
    â€œDear,” she said again.
    â€œI thought you were inside,” Penny said, trying to catch her breath. “But it was just your reflection.”
    Mrs. Stahl did not say anything for a moment, her hands cupped in front of herself.
    Penny saw she was holding a scarlet-covered book in her palms.
    â€œI often sit out here at night,” she said, voice loose and tipsy, “reading under the stars. Larry used to do that, you know.”
    Â 
    She invited Penny into her bungalow, the smallest one, in back.
    â€œI’d like us to talk,” she said.
    Penny did not pause. She wanted to see it. Wanted to understand.
    Walking inside, she realized at last what the strongest smell in the courtyard was. All around were pots of night-blooming jasmine, climbing and vining up the built-in bookshelves, around the window frame, even trained over the arched doorway into the dining room.
    They drank jasmine tea, iced. The room was close and Penny had never seen so many books. None of them looked like they’d ever been opened, their spines cool and immaculate.
    â€œI have more,” Mrs. Stahl said, waving toward the mint-walled hallway, some space beyond, the air itself so thick with the breath of the jasmine, Penny couldn’t see it. “I love books. Larry taught me how. He knew what ones I’d like.”
    Penny nodded. “At night I read the books in the bungalow. I never read so much.”
    â€œI wanted to keep them there. It only seemed right. And I didn’t believe what the other tenants said, about the paper smelling like gas.”
    At that, Penny had a grim thought. What if everything smelled like gas and she didn’t know it? The strong scent of apricot, of eucalyptus, a perpetual perfume suffusing everything—how would one know?
    â€œDear, do you enjoy living in Larry’s bungalow?”
    Penny didn’t know what to say, so she only nodded, taking a long sip of the tea. Was it rum? Some kind of liqueur? It was very sweet and tingled on her tongue.
    â€œHe was my favorite tenant. Even after . . .”—she paused, her head shaking—“what he did.”
    â€œAnd you found him,” Penny said. “That must have been awful.”
    She held up the red-covered book she’d been reading in the courtyard.
    â€œThis was found on . . . on his person. He must’ve been planning on giving it to me. He gave me so many things. See how it’s red, like a heart?”
    â€œWhat kind of book is it?” Penny asked, leaning closer.
    Mrs. Stahl looked at her but didn’t seem to be listening, clasping the book with one hand while with the other she stroked her neck, long and unlined.
    â€œEvery book he gave me showed how much he understood me. He gave me many things and never asked for anything. That was when my mother was dying from Bright’s, her face puffed up like a carnival balloon. Nasty woman.”
    â€œMrs. Stahl,” Penny started, her fingers tingling unbearably, the smell so strong, Mrs. Stahl’s plants, her strong perfume—sandalwood?
    â€œHe just liked everyone. You’d think it was just you. The care he took. Once he brought me a brass rouge pot from Paramount studios. He told me it belonged to Paulette Goddard. I still have it.”
    â€œMrs. Stahl,” Penny tried again, bolder now, “were you in love with him?”
    The woman looked at her, and Penny felt her focus loosen, like in those old detective movies, right before the screen went black.
    â€œHe really only wanted the stars,” Mrs. Stahl said, running her fingers across her décolletage, the satin of her dressing robe, a