Dead by Any Other Name Read Online Free

jumped up on the bed and curled at my feet. The thunder in Sawyerville always amazed me—it hurtled down the cloves between the mountains and exploded into the valley; according to legend, it was Rip Van Winkle bowling—well, he was rolling strikes Saturday night.
    Sunday was another busy day and I slept even later than usual on Monday. Since the store was closed, I lingered upstairs, enjoying my coffee and some quality time with my brood (quality time with Lois meant feeding her). At the civilized hour of 11 am I called Natasha to arrange to pay her the three grand I still owed her.
    There was no answer. I left a message.
    A few minutes later the doorbell rang down in the store. I went downstairs—followed by Sputnik with Bub riding rump—and saw Abba outside. She looked disturbed.
    â€œSomething very sad happened,” she said.
    â€œWhat?”
    She handed me a copy of the day’s Freeman .
    local woman dies in platte clove
    The body of Natasha Wolfson, 29, of Phoenicia, was discovered by a hiker on Sunday in the Devil’s Kitchen section of the upper Platte Clove. The New York State Police report no sign of foul play and have made a preliminary ruling that the death was either an accident or a suicide; an autopsy has been scheduled. Ms. Wolfson, a singer and songwriter, is the daughter of nationally known psychologists and authors Howard and Sally Wolfson.
    Devil’s Kitchen is considered one of the most dangerous climbing spots in the entire state. Within the last year alone, two other hikers have fallen to their deaths. According to police, Ms. Wolfson was not wearing hiking boots.
    I went a little numb with shock, and then a wave of sadness swept over me. Natasha was a good kid, she was struggling with some serious demons but she had talent, heart, and most of her life in front of her. Not anymore.
    â€œYou okay?” Abba asked.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œShe kind of got to you, didn’t she?”
    â€œIf I let every troubled, mixed-up soul who I spent a little face time with get to me, there wouldn’t be any me left to get.”
    Abba just stood there for a moment and then said, “Are you or aren’t you going to invite me in for a cup of your so-called coffee?”
    I nodded.
    While I made a fresh pot of my out-of-a-can coffee she scratched Bub’s head, sending him into paroxysms of avian ecstasy. Lois kept her distance—Abba had told Lois on more than one occasion that she had no truck with her “haughty bullshit.” Cats are weird, I mean where do they get the nerve?
    I handed Abba her cupajoe, she cocked her head and looked at me with those big amber-green eyes of hers.
    â€œâ€¦ Yeah, all right, she fucking got to me,” I said. “I mean she was so full of life, she had moxie … she sang a little for me, a song she wrote … listen to this.” I slipped Natasha’s CD into my player. Her soulful throaty voice filled the store:
    Love by any other name
    Would hurt the same
    We sat there listening and when the song ended, Abba put down her coffee and gave me a hug. Now hugs tend to bug me, they’re the goddamn panacea for everything—“Oh, you chipped a nail, let me give you a great big hug !” “Oh, an escaped mental patient slaughtered and ate your whole family, let me give you a great big hug !” But this one felt good. Mostly because it was coming from Abba.
    â€œI know you hate these, but tough shit,” she said.
    I didn’t hug back—I mean there are limits.
    Thank God Abba didn’t do that end-of-hug squeeze thing, that really sends me up a tree. She picked up her cup and sat in a turquoise vinyl armchair that George had pronounced “kitsch chic.”
    I sat behind my desk. “I’m not sure I buy that it was suicide. I know what that level of despair looks like and Natasha Wolfson was nowhere near it. In fact she was focused on the future in a way that is the clinical