The Wandering Soul Murders by Gail Bowen Read Free Book Online Page B

she heard the words, Christy broke away from Peter and turned to face us. For a terrible moment, she stood frozen, staring at the radio, her eyes wide with horror. Then she turned and ran toward the house. Peter went after her. He got to the veranda just as she slammed the door. He hesitated, then he opened the door and disappeared into the darkness of the house.
    Lorraine Harris sat looking thoughtfully at the spot on the lawn where Christy had acted out her curious tableau. Then she shook herself out of her reverie and checked her watch.
    “Time to get the croquet started before we lose the light,” she said. “I’ll put Peter and his fiancé on the same team.”
    “His friend,” I said, “they’re not engaged.”
    “Well, his friend told me they were engaged,” Lorraine said. She wrote the names on her list. “Keith, you might as well bring your crew along now. It’s getting late. People can pick their own teams.”
    She stood, and we followed her as she strode up the hill and into the house. I started to go inside, too, then I stopped. “Remember the wrestling,” I said under my breath, “let them be. They’re not children. They’ll work it out.”
    A striped tent had been set up on the west lawn. It was filled with people and laughter. There was a well-stocked bar set up on one side; beside it, on a small table, an orchard of fruit floated in a crystal bowl of punch. In the centre of the tent, Lorraine Harris stood with her clipboard arranging teams, setting up games. There was a master list on a flip chart beside her. I checked the list.
    “We’re playing the Deuces,” I said to Keith.
    The Deuces turned out to be the rest of Greg’s groomsmen, four young men with the flawless good looks that come with a lifetime of solid nutrition and expensive orthodonture. The game wasn’t as one-sided as I’d feared. When it was over, we hadn’t distinguished ourselves, but the Deuces hadn’t blown our doors out, and as we walked to the tent we were happy. Inside, the noise level had risen, and the level in the liquor bottles had fallen.
    From the talk in the tent it was apparent that croquet had caught on. There were challenges and counter-challenges. On the flip chart someone had written the names of the winners of the first games and the matches for the second set.
    Keith checked the chart. “Losers’ tournament starts at seven-thirty tomorrow morning,” he said.
    I snapped open two bottles of Heineken and handed one to Keith. “I’ve already forgotten what you just said. Now, come on, let’s find the kids and get ready for the fireworks.”
    “Jo, I promised my dad I’d sit up on the veranda with him and watch. Do you mind?”
    “Of course not,” I said. “I’m going to see if Peter and Christy will come down and watch with us from the dock. I can’t figure out what’s going on there, but whatever it is, she and Peter might find it easier to be away from strangers.”
    Keith and I walked to the house together. Blaine Harris was already on the veranda waiting. The woman who had served our dinner was with him, tucking a blanket around his legs, but when Blaine saw his son, he shook the woman off.
    Keith called to his father, then he turned to me. “I’ll find you after the fireworks. I’ll bring that bottle of brandy, take the chill off our bones.”
    “I’ll be waiting,” I said.
    Keith bent and kissed my cheek, and from the veranda, the old man growled in disapproval.
    “His bark is worse than his bite,” Keith said mildly. Then he kissed me again.
    When I knocked on Peter’s door, he opened it so quickly I thought he must have been on his way out.
    “How are you doing?” I asked.
    “I’m okay,” he said.
    “And Christy?”
    “She’s out on the lake,” he said. “Canoeing. She said even when she was a kid, she did that when she was upset. It calmed her down.”
    “Where did she find a place to canoe in Estevan?” I said. “That’s pretty arid country down