Always Kiss the Corpse Read Online Free Page A

mid-size blue spruce. They got out, locked their doors and tramped toward the house. Kyra rang the doorbell, bing bong.
    The door opened slowly, with an Inner Sanctum screak. A woman’s head appeared from behind the half-open door.
    â€œMrs. Vasiliadis?” Kyra inquired.
    â€œYes?” The door opened more.
    Kyra introduced herself and Noel. “We’re Islands Investigations International. Sandro’s friend Garth Schultz asked us to come over.”
    â€œOh. Garth.”
    â€œMay we come in?”
    She opened the door fully.
    A solid woman in maybe her late sixties, black dress and stockings, comfy beat-up leather slippers, shortish hair on end as if she’d been pulling it. A dark line of mustache on her upper lip. Not sixty yet, Noel thought, but she looks so weary. Heavy lines on her forehead, puffy eyes, cheeks hung to jowls and her shoulders into her upper arms.
    â€œCome in.” She took charge as if she knew she had to, and closed the door. She smiled. At least her mouth did. She turned and they followed through an arch into a living room.
    An impression of blue: chesterfield, two armchairs, carpet, curtains, and a painting of hills and valleys on the wooden fireplace mantel.
    Mrs. Vasiliadis dropped onto the chesterfield. “Excuse me,” she said. “The doctor gave me something to help me sleep and it’s left me exhausted.”
    Kyra sat in an overstuffed chair.
    Mrs. Vasiliadis said, with effort. “So you’re a friend of Garth Schultz?”
    â€œHe phoned me.” Kyra glanced at her with a frown of inquiry. “But I’m afraid I can’t immediately place him. I’m better with faces than names.”
    Noel took a chair—wooden arms, faded brocade seat and back.
    â€œGarth used to be Alessandro’s best friend.” She rubbed the tissue she was holding between her palms, and frowned at it. “I thought he said he knew you personally.”
    â€œI’ve undoubtedly met him,” Kyra soothed, “and I’ll remember when I see him.”
    â€œWhen they were little Garth always stood up for Sandro.”
    â€œIf you give us his address, we’ll talk with him,” Noel said. “What can we do for you?”
    â€œFind my son.” Her eyes filled with tears and she blotted them with the tissue. “I leaned down to kiss—” she faltered.
    Noel pulled out a notebook. “We know this is hard. We’ll try to help. Can you tell us what happened?”
    She did, and ended in tears. “It wasn’t Alessandro.”
    â€œYou’re certain?” Noel spoke gently.
    â€œOh yes.” She pulled herself together. “Since it’s not Sandro who’s dead, he must be alive. I’ve called and called his house, and no one’s there. So where is he?”
    â€œWe’ll try to find out and—”
    â€œAnd what mother’s son is in the casket? It’s not Sandro so we can’t bury him. When Sandro dies, he’ll be buried in our Orthodox tradition. But he can’t be buried if he isn’t dead.”
    â€œWhy do you believe he’s not?”
    â€œAlessandro has a very dark thick beard. He shaves again in the afternoon if he goes out in the evening. That face had hardly any hair.” Maria’s eyes welled up again. “This man’s skin was smooth, his hair far too long, he looked—”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œâ€”not like Sandro. The person in the coffin had the wrong lips. The wrong face. No, it’s all wrong.” She sniffed. They waited while she composed herself. “Whose is the body?”
    â€œGarth Schultz said the funeral was on Whidbey Island?” Kyra asked.
    â€œIt wasn’t a funeral, it was a viewing for Sandro’s friends. To pay their last respects.” Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat. “Sandro moved to Whidbey a couple of years ago. He works at the hospital, he’s an LPN, licensed