Edited to Death Read Online Free Page A

DeBurgos?”
    “She’s in her kitchen. Restoring herself, I think.”
    “Restoring herself?”
    “With a little Pernod. She’s not very good at this either.” From the end of the hallway,
     I heard a throaty wail.
    “Maggie, what’s going on? Come tell me.”
    Moon put his hand on my arm and steered me into Madame’s entryway. “Let’s stand in
     here for a minute.”
    He pulled the door nearly closed and began, “Why don’t you—” when footsteps sounded
     on the front steps that led up to Quentin and Madame’s apartments.
    “Quentin? Quent? Did you get picked up for bothering little boys? There’s a bunch
     of fuzzmobiles out in your driveway.”
    Moon pulled Madame’s door open and called, “We’re in here. Come in, please.”
    A young man stopped between the two front doors, puzzled. “Who’re you? Where’s Quentin?
     What’s going on?”
    “Inspector Moon, homicide. Ms. Fiori, a friend of Mr. Hart.”
    “Homicide? Quentin doing a story? Where is he anyway? We’re supposed to have lunch.”
    The porch grew very quiet for a moment. The young black man was beautiful. Early thirties,
     dressed in artfully, expensively casual clothes—leather boots, pleated pants, oversized
     sweater, plaid shirt and cashmere scarf.
    Moon spoke. “He’s in the living room in his apartment. And, I’m afraid lunch is… off.”
    “He’s dead,” I quavered. “Quentin’s dead. Somebody killed him.”
    The young man looked from Moon to me and back again. “Quentin? Dead? Holy Christ.”
    Moon watched the young man a moment. “And you are?”
    The young man shook his head, trying to understand. I sympathized; I still wasn’t
     too clear myself. “I am? Oh, I’m Calvin Bright.”
    “I know you,” I blurted.
    He looked at me. “You do?”
    “I know your work, I mean. Your photography. You shoot for Small Town . I’ve seen your fashion stuff in Town & Country . I’m Maggie Fiori.”
    Moon cleared his throat. “Well, you certainly seem to know all the players, Mrs. Fiori.
     And I’m sorry to interrupt the networking, but I have to get to my work now.” He surveyed
     us. “I’ll need to speak to you both. May I assume I can find you in…” he looked at
     his notes, “… Mrs. DeBurgos’ apartment?” We nodded in unison, two chastened children,
     and watched Moon leave.
    “Well,” said Calvin, “Not quite what I expected in a homicide dick.”
    “Me either.” I leaned against the wall. “What am I saying? What did I expect? I’ve
     never seen a homicide detective outside a whodunit or the tube. I just happen to know
     this one—a little bit.”
    Calvin looked puzzled. “You know this guy?”
    I shrugged. “He plays hockey with my husband in a seniors’ league. I mean, they’re
     not senior citizens, they’re just over forty.”
    “Ice hockey? In California? He can’t windsurf or bungee jump or something normal?”
    “That’s almost precisely what Quentin used to say.”
    Calvin peered past me, into Madame’s jungle-like hallway, lined with hanging ferns
     and dusty potted palms. He whispered, “Where are we? Who lives here?”
    “Madam DeBurgos, Quentin’s neighbor. Well, obviously she’s his neighbor; but his friend,
     too. Could we go sit down? I’m feeling a little dizzy.”
    “Maggie, darling,” called Madame.
    “Coming,” I said, and I gestured for Calvin to follow. In a few minutes, she had us
     settled at her kitchen table, littered with a week’s worth of newspapers, back copies
     of Opera News , and several sticky jars of honey. She excused herself and returned from the sofa
     with a “just freshened-up” glass of Pernod.
    Calvin cased the table. “She into bees?” he asked, looking at the honey.
    “It’s for her instrument,” I whispered. “Her voice. She’s a singer.”
    “Oh.”
    Silence fell. The sound of Madame’s sniffles came from the living room.
    “You found him?” asked Calvin.
    I nodded.
    “Jesus.” Calvin shook his head. “What