Edited to Death Read Online Free

door and called, “Quentin? Stuart?”
    The door opened onto a staircase that led into a tiled entryway. I climbed the stairs,
     expecting Quentin or Stuart to appear any moment. Not a sound. Just Quentin’s pristine
     flat: all white walls, Berber carpets, netsuke, books, Japanese brush paintings. Michael
     always said, “If it gets any more serene in here, Quentin can sublet to Zen monks.”
    And that’s the first thing I noticed that fall morning, with Madame DeBurgos caroling
     at me from the doorway. “Maggie, I’ve fetched you some note paper!”
    What I noticed was this: Quentin’s apartment wasn’t so pristine any more. And, though
     I still couldn’t hear a sound but Madame’s labored breath as she puffed up Quentin’s
     stairs, it wasn’t so serene either.
    A dead body in the living room cuts into your serenity something fierce.

3
    Bright Meets JIP
    “Ms. Fiori?”
    “Yes?” I turned, shivering in Madame’s doorway, to see a tall, slender, Asian man
     with salt-and-pepper hair. He was dressed in a decidedly unrumpled trench coat and
     followed by two uniformed police officers. He held out his hand. I looked at it blankly,
     then remembered the social amenities. Introductions. Handshakes. Things like that.
     I extended my hand and wondered why he looked familiar.
    “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this. Yes, I’m Maggie Fiori. I’m the one who called
     you.”
    “John Moon. Homicide. Don’t worry about not being good at—” He waved toward Quentin’s
     doorway. “This. Most people aren’t. It’s a bad enough vocation. I don’t recommend
     finding bodies for an avocation .”
    We shook hands. Mine was icy.
    He gestured at Quentin’s doorway. “In there?”
    I nodded.
    “Go ahead and get started,” he said to the two uniformed officers, and they headed
     up the stairway into Quentin’s flat.
    “Do I know you?” I blurted. “I’m so addled, I just can’t figure it out, but you look—”
    He interrupted. “You’re Michael Fiori’s wife. I should have recognized the name. We
     met after one of the ‘Geezrs on Ice’ matches.”
    Some memory swam up to the surface. “Oh, of course. Senior hockey. I didn’t recognize
     you without.…” I gestured vaguely, up and down.
    “Pads. Uniforms,” he said.
    “Right. And—you’re a cop? I didn’t know that. But then, I wouldn’t need to.…” I knew
     I was babbling and didn’t know how to stop. “I’ll shut up,” I said. “What do you need
     to know?”
    “Why don’t you begin at the beginning?”
    “I was supposed to have lunch with…” I gestured at the door again, “…Quentin, and
     he didn’t answer the door. I wanted to leave him a note, but my checks had rocket
     ships on them. Zach, my son, draws all over them when we go out for pizza. So. Quentin’s
     downstairs neighbor—the lady who lives here, Madame DeBurgos—went to get me some paper.
     But the door was open, which isn’t like Quentin, so I came in—and there he was.”
    I couldn’t bear to think about looking again. I closed my eyes. It didn’t help. Open
     or shut, I could still see Quentin as I’d found him: seated at his writing table,
     face down, the back of his patrician head a mess of matted hair and blood. I’d forced
     myself to feel his throat for a pulse. Nothing. The nausea washed over me—and I had
     just enough time to get to the bathroom before losing my breakfast. When I’d rinsed
     my mouth and splashed my face with cold water, I dug my cell phone out of my purse
     and dialed 911. The dispatcher ordered me out of the house, in case the “perpetrator
     was still on the premises,” as she said. I hadn’t thought of that. I raced down the
     stairs and locked myself (and Madame) into her flat. Then, too restless to sit there
     among Madame’s overstuffed furniture and memorabilia, I’d gone down to the tiny front
     porch to await the police.
    I tried to concentrate. Moon was speaking again. “And Madame