The Prettiest Girl I Ever Killed by Charles Runyon Read Free Book Online

wasn’t
about
to apologize; Curt said he certainly didn’t blame him, because there was no need to apologize for telling the truth as he saw it. Jesus … I was about to fall out of the booth laughing. That poor goddam Goober was being led along like a pig with a ring in his nose. Finally he got up and said he was closing for the night and we’d have to leave.”
    “You enjoyed it, did you?”
    Lou smiled. “I like the way he screws people up.”
    “Sounds to me like he’s just trying to make trouble, this hero of yours.”
    Lou pulled aside the covers and slid into his bed. “Not
just
make trouble, Velda.”
    “You believe he’s trying to clear his brother.”
    “Naturally,” said Lou, stifling a yawn. “Does he have anything new?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “And Bernice? Does he have any evidence of murder?”
    “None that I know of.”
    “Then what—?”
    “Listen, you’ve gone rabbit hunting with your brother?”
    “Yes.”
    “What did he do when the rabbit ran into a brushpile?”
    I frowned, trying to remember. “He threw rocks and made a lot of noise, trying to scare him into the open.”
    Lou nodded. “And if that didn’t work he set fire to the brushpile.” Lou frowned at the ceiling. “I’m just guessing, you know. I can’t read him at all. He smiles when you can’t see anything to smile about. Sort of hangs back, watching you. I don’t think his wife understands him either. When she talks to somebody, her eyes keep sliding in his direction to see how he’s taking it.” Lou paused. “An interesting couple. I thought I’d invite them …”
    “Lou.” A tone of quiet warning.
    “His brother did it, Velda. Curt was in Korea.”
    “I know that.” I was speaking around a pain. “Invite anybody you like. Just don’t expect me to entertain them.”
    “You sound like a Brushcreeker.”
    “Strange. It happens I am.”
    “So’s Curt.”
    “Then he’ll understand exactly how I feel.” I rolled over and turned my back. “Good night.”
    A moment later the canopy of light between our beds disappeared. I tossed in the darkness and cursed the treachery of my own nervous system. All the girlish uncertainty I thought I’d conquered had only been asleep someplace. Curt’s return had brought it popping out like some foolish jack-in-the-box grinning its floppy head at me. I knew that Curt had trapped Lou in a net of curiosity, and I was determined not to he caught the same way. I also saw that Lou didn’t care whether he was trapped or not, and I was afraid I wouldn’t care either—
    Oh hell, let’s face it. Curt was too smart, and my little boat couldn’t stand much rocking. Give me credit for knowing that much.

C HAPTER T WO
    I was standing at the store window next morning when Gabrielle strolled through the park with Sandra Matthews. Sandy was a Brush Creek girl whom the boys used to pick up around midnight and take home the long way. Poor Sandy had the illusion that this was what they meant when they talked about popularity. She’d been in the Club 75 with Frankie the night of Anne’s murder, and she’d testified at the trial.
    I could picture the courtroom at Franklin; I could hear the muffled coughs and hushed whispers. I smelled musty paper and ancient varnish and I saw Sandy on the stand, so serious that she looked mournful. She wore a navy-blue suit and black patent-leather pumps, the same outfit she’d worn to Anne’s funeral. She testified that Frankie had drunk perhaps a half dozen beers and sampled a friend’s bottle of bourbon. When the prosecutor asked if Frankie was drunk, Frankie’s lawyer objected that Sandy wasn’t qualified to judge drunkenness. The judge sustained the objection, and the prosecutor went on to ask what happened when Frankie was told that Anne was waiting in the car:
    Sandy:
Well, I was bugged. I mean, he was my date, after all. I asked him why he didn’t go out and finish with her for good. I didn’t mean—
    Prosecutor:
You meant