The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle by Laura Disilverio Read Free Book Online Page A

become engaged to another woman this past year, and another I barely knew. I needed to focus on the grand opening. Focus, focus, focus.
    Hart and I parted on the sidewalk in front of the tea shop. “Gotta run,” he said. When he handed over my yogurt, his fingers brushed mine and I felt that tingly glow again.
    â€œCriminals keeping you hopping?” I asked.
    â€œStaff meeting. I’d prefer the criminals.”
    I laughed, waved, and headed for my van as he walked down the block and turned the corner toward the police department.
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    I crunched into Elysium’s gravel parking lot half an hour later, near nine o’clock, having taken a two-minute shower, pulled my hair into a ponytail to keep it out of the way, and shrugged into jeans and a tank top. Today was about work, not impressing potential clients. I’d sneak home before the actual party started and change clothes. Opening the van door to let the morning’s cool breeze in, I spooned up my yogurt and scanned my to-do list. It was lengthy. It ranged from directing the caterers (for the preopening party—we were serving the pub’s food during the grandopening), banner hangers, and cleaning staff, to making sure the extra chairs arrived and were arranged attractively in the second-floor pool table area for the preopening party, to checking stocks of toilet paper and towels in the bathroom, confirming with the valets, off-duty cops, and other extra staff, picking up the Elysium Brewing T-shirts we were handing out to the first hundred guests, and a couple of dozen more things. Where was Al?
    On the thought, he drove up and stopped beside my van with a puff of dust from the gravel. “Reporting for duty, boss,” he said.
    â€œDon’t call me ‘boss,’” I told him for the millionth time.
    â€œWhere do you want me to start?”
    A delivery truck from the party rental company in Grand Junction turned into the lot just then, so I sent Al upstairs with their team to supervise the transformation of the pool table loft. I headed for the kitchen, hoping the catering staff would show up before too long. Bernie was there, sponging a spot off the front of her uniform shirt. I said hello and peered out the kitchen’s open back door. A produce delivery van was off-loading while a kitchen worker kept track by marking items off on a clipboard. Two industrial-size Dumpsters yawned open behind the van, already half-filled with pallets and bulging trash bags stuffed with kitchen refuse, I guessed from the smell. Gordon Marsh, looking much more together today in pressed khakis and an orange Elysium Brewing golf shirt, a Band-Aid on his cheek, stood beside a Dumpster, apparentlyarguing with a zaftig blonde who used her hands as she talked. She looked familiar . . .
    Bernie appeared beside me, probably curious about what I was staring at, and I asked her, “Is that Gordon’s sister?”
    She shrugged thin shoulders. “Wouldn’t know. I’ve never met his sister. I think she’s a step-, though, so you can’t tell anything by looking at them.” We studied the quarreling pair, who hadn’t noticed us.
    I put it aside, not interested in Gordon’s love life, and too pissed off at him for what he was doing to Derek to say good morning. I checked with the head chef to make sure everything was okay in his domain. He gave me an “okay” sign with circled thumb and forefinger, and I left the kitchen in time to meet the janitor coming through the front door.
    â€œThanks for coming early, Forrest,” I greeted him.
    â€œFoster. Don’t worry about it.” He gave a small smile when I winced at getting his name wrong. “You were close. Most people don’t think janitors have names. I’ve discovered in the past few months that we’re an invisible breed.”
    Even though he was smiling, his tone was bitter. Wearing a