Read Online Buried Bones by Carolyn Haines - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carolyn Haines
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exactly the best of times for women. Especially women of color." Hah! I had her now.
"If you'd settle down, marry, and produce an heir, I wouldn't be forced to choose between my needs and yours."
With that zinger, she did a fast fade.
Sweetie's tail thumped the porch. She was looking perkier and had actually retrieved the shoe. I'd give her another five minutes of fetch before I got ready for Harold.
I went into the yard and threw the shoe. "Fetch, girl! Get it!" To my surprise she went right after it. But instead of bringing it to me, she hauled ass under the porch. No amount of coaxing could bring her out. On my hands and knees I went after her.
I heard her happy tail thumping and found her about ten feet under the edge of the porch nested in a pile of goodies, the shoe still in her mouth.
"Sweetie," I cried in dismay. She might not fetch for me but she'd been working overtime on her own acquisitions. She had a remote control--not mine--a catcher's mitt, and several tennis shoes, mismatched but name brand. The dog was a thief. I looked around the vast expanse of under-house terrain. No telling what else the dog had hidden.
"Sweetie," I whispered, gathering up the stuff. "They don't rehabilitate dogs. It's the gas chamber." I backed out from under the house and headed straight for the toolshed. I intended to bury the evidence before anyone else saw it.
5
The problem with getting dressed too early is that a woman is left with too much time on her hands. Coiffured, perfumed, made-up--there's not a single, solitary, useful thing she can do except look good. After two hours of labor, I had no intention of risking damage to the hard-won effect, so I found myself, nails aglitter with a dazzling coat of red, sitting in my neon pulsating parlor with a glass of Jack Daniel's. I decided to savor the moment and congratulate myself on having earned enough money to buy good bonded whiskey.
Sweetie Pie was lounging at my feet, content with her three cans of Alpo and a half of an apple pie she'd stolen off the kitchen counter. I rubbed my stockinged foot over her belly, feeling the swell of food. She wasn't a great dog, but she was one helluva calorie disposal unit.
The doorbell rang and I checked my image in the mirror that hung over the mantel. Harold would be suitably impressed with my dark green velvet dress with its mandarin collar and gold frogs.
I opened the door with a demure smile and found myself face-to-face with a short person completely covered in a black hooded cloak. The figure swept past me with a harsh command--"Shut the door! Quickly!"
I recognized Madame's tones and reacted as always. I obeyed and followed her into the parlor where she proceeded straight to the crystal decanter and poured herself a heaping amount of JD.
In a move that only a dancer could achieve, she swirled to face me. As the cloak billowed about her, the hood fell back. Madame's dark eyes sparkled with unshed tears. "What have you discovered?" she asked.
Though I wasn't much of a student of dance, drama was my love. I had to give it to her for theatrics. "It's Christmas Day," I reminded her gently.
She put a small fist to her mouth as she composed herself. "Someone murdered
Lawrence
, and you're only interested in a holiday!"
I picked up my drink and took a long swallow. The image of Lawrence Ambrose on his floor was clearly etched in my memory. The sound of Madame's sobs as she knelt beside him were also recorded in Memorex. "I'll check tomorrow," I assured her. "Nothing was open today." Besides, the autopsy had to be performed, dictated, and transcribed. These were details she didn't need to think about.
"The manuscript is missing," she said, pacing in front of the fireplace. "There's no doubt Brianna stole it. We have to get it back. We can't let her publish it."
This was a point that needed clarification. "How far along were they?"
Madame shook her head. "I don't know for certain.
Lawrence
had been talking to her for several
"If you'd settle down, marry, and produce an heir, I wouldn't be forced to choose between my needs and yours."
With that zinger, she did a fast fade.
Sweetie's tail thumped the porch. She was looking perkier and had actually retrieved the shoe. I'd give her another five minutes of fetch before I got ready for Harold.
I went into the yard and threw the shoe. "Fetch, girl! Get it!" To my surprise she went right after it. But instead of bringing it to me, she hauled ass under the porch. No amount of coaxing could bring her out. On my hands and knees I went after her.
I heard her happy tail thumping and found her about ten feet under the edge of the porch nested in a pile of goodies, the shoe still in her mouth.
"Sweetie," I cried in dismay. She might not fetch for me but she'd been working overtime on her own acquisitions. She had a remote control--not mine--a catcher's mitt, and several tennis shoes, mismatched but name brand. The dog was a thief. I looked around the vast expanse of under-house terrain. No telling what else the dog had hidden.
"Sweetie," I whispered, gathering up the stuff. "They don't rehabilitate dogs. It's the gas chamber." I backed out from under the house and headed straight for the toolshed. I intended to bury the evidence before anyone else saw it.
5
The problem with getting dressed too early is that a woman is left with too much time on her hands. Coiffured, perfumed, made-up--there's not a single, solitary, useful thing she can do except look good. After two hours of labor, I had no intention of risking damage to the hard-won effect, so I found myself, nails aglitter with a dazzling coat of red, sitting in my neon pulsating parlor with a glass of Jack Daniel's. I decided to savor the moment and congratulate myself on having earned enough money to buy good bonded whiskey.
Sweetie Pie was lounging at my feet, content with her three cans of Alpo and a half of an apple pie she'd stolen off the kitchen counter. I rubbed my stockinged foot over her belly, feeling the swell of food. She wasn't a great dog, but she was one helluva calorie disposal unit.
The doorbell rang and I checked my image in the mirror that hung over the mantel. Harold would be suitably impressed with my dark green velvet dress with its mandarin collar and gold frogs.
I opened the door with a demure smile and found myself face-to-face with a short person completely covered in a black hooded cloak. The figure swept past me with a harsh command--"Shut the door! Quickly!"
I recognized Madame's tones and reacted as always. I obeyed and followed her into the parlor where she proceeded straight to the crystal decanter and poured herself a heaping amount of JD.
In a move that only a dancer could achieve, she swirled to face me. As the cloak billowed about her, the hood fell back. Madame's dark eyes sparkled with unshed tears. "What have you discovered?" she asked.
Though I wasn't much of a student of dance, drama was my love. I had to give it to her for theatrics. "It's Christmas Day," I reminded her gently.
She put a small fist to her mouth as she composed herself. "Someone murdered
Lawrence
, and you're only interested in a holiday!"
I picked up my drink and took a long swallow. The image of Lawrence Ambrose on his floor was clearly etched in my memory. The sound of Madame's sobs as she knelt beside him were also recorded in Memorex. "I'll check tomorrow," I assured her. "Nothing was open today." Besides, the autopsy had to be performed, dictated, and transcribed. These were details she didn't need to think about.
"The manuscript is missing," she said, pacing in front of the fireplace. "There's no doubt Brianna stole it. We have to get it back. We can't let her publish it."
This was a point that needed clarification. "How far along were they?"
Madame shook her head. "I don't know for certain.
Lawrence
had been talking to her for several
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