A Dose of Murder Read Online Free

wouldn’t have such a view. I crossed my legs at the ankles like ladies are supposed to do.
    Maciejko women—my mother’s family—were known for their legs. My grandmother on Mom’s side, who we fondly called
Babci
since it meant grandmother, had a set on her that looked as if she ran the New York marathon annually. Look out New York City Rockettes! Hardworking Poles could look damn fine if they didn’t overdo the shots and beers and kielbasa.
    Fabio shuffled his foot. Got my attention.
    â€œSo, when would you like me to come back?” Now that I was going to be gainfully employed, I should go out and celebrate. Charge something on my credit card, with the “light at the end of the tunnel” theory that I’d be getting a paycheck soon to cover the bill.
    He slid his gaze from my legs, lingered far too long for good taste on my chest and finally made it to my head. Something about Fabio I noticed right off the bat though: He didn’t look me in the eyes. He had an annoying habit of looking over my head.
    I actually turned to see if there was something behind me, but saw only tan-and-brown woven wallpaper peeling at the top near the corner wall. I turned around.
    â€œCome back?” he said, and turned toward the door he’d slunk in from. “I need someone
today
, doll. Dick Stacey quit out of the fucking blue. If that ain’t enough, Mike Morton is home with the gout. Gets it every few months because he won’t lay off the sauce. That leaves you to pick up the slack, doll.” With that, he walked out the door.
    Feeling a bit like Alice chasing the rabbit through Wonderland, I couldn’t decide whether to follow or stay safely in the waiting room. This “doll” sat there dumbstruck.
    Suddenly, like the Cheshire Cat, a head appeared behind the Plexiglas window of the reception desk. It belonged to a woman wearing a skintight white suit with black polka dots on the collar as well as the ribbon in her bright (and I don’t use that term lightly) yellow hair, and on her gloves. Gloves? Hadn’t seen them on anyone since 1979, except in the winter. These weren’t wool though; they were a stark white with tiny black dots on the ruffles.
    She looked at me and shoved the window door to one side. “Hi,
chéri
. What can Adele do for you?”
    Motionless for a few seconds, I could only stare.
Adele could be a prostitute
, was my first thought. What?
Stop that, Pauline
. How snobbish of me to think that because her cleavage could hold an entire pencil box full at one time, and that her use of the endearment could be misinterpreted, she could be a streetwalker. Despite the overdone blue eye shadow, the fire-engine red lipstick and the cheeks that looked like, well, red polka dots, she would be rather attractive if she toned it down.
    Shaking my confused, stupid thoughts out of my head, I smiled. “I . . . I’m going to be working here.”
    She leaned over to get a closer look. That cleavage kept me staring at the wall behind her. Similar to what Fabio had done to me, but I wasn’t showing cleavage today, and I figured, he’d stare anyway, at any woman.
    â€œWork here?” she asked.
    â€œWhy, yes.” I managed to get back to some state of normalcy. Adele’s outward appearance had confused me at first, but some kind of motherly warmth emanated from her. She had the best smile I’d ever seen, with teeth whiter than her suit. “Mr. Scarpello—”
    â€œFabio,
chéri
. ‘Mr. Scarpello’ was used for his father, may his soul rest in peace. Using it for”—she motioned with her head toward the back door—“
him
is tantamount to disrespect for the dead.” She held out her hand. “I’m Adele Girard.”
    I liked the way she rolled her Rs. “Nice to meet you.” I shook her hand. “I’m Pauline—”
    She waved toward the door. “Come back here