Killer Chameleon Read Online Free Page B

brightened. Clearly either rubbing or caulking was a chore he enjoyed. “Thanks for letting us use this mat, Miz Warren. Uh, gotta go.” He tipped the brim of his Pep Boys cap and backed into the apartment with a sheepish grin. I heard Neva giggle and suppressed a surge of envy as he shut the door.
    The realization stunned me. Envy? Of Cholly and Neva, for God’s sake? The intensity of it not only rattled me, it showed me what bad shape I was in.
    I unlocked the door of 503, kicked it shut behind me, and collapsed onto the futon, letting the boxes, mail, and my purse land wherever they happened to. Still swaddled in my coat, I pried my boots off and reached for the phone to call Duck, then hesitated. I had to work my way through an explanation for what I’d experienced out in the hall.
    For a second or two back there, I’d have changed places with Cholly and Neva, make what they had mine. Not that I wanted the apartment back; the corpse in the kitchen had soured the place for me in more ways than one. And I didn’t particularly envy them the impending birth of their baby. Granted, Duck and I wanted children, and my biological clock seemed to tick louder every month, but we both knew we’d need some time to get used to being mister and missus before taking that big step. What I coveted was Cholly and Neva’s stability, their permanence. They were man and wife, their relationship set in concrete, to all appearances happy despite their constant squabbling. They had jobs they loved. And a home.
    Then there was me. Not quite married. And even though heading the Shores’ police force was in the works, it was still just that. In the works. So I was not quite employed. And weighing twice as heavily, I was homeless, no not-quite about it. As generous as Janeece had been about insisting I share her apartment until the wedding, it was her apartment, not mine. The fact that my feet weren’t propped on the coffee table in toe-wiggling bliss at being free of my boots was just one reminder that I was company, and had to be respectful of someone else’s property. Putting my feet up would require moving Janeece’s collection of candle holders. As soon as she walked in, she would nudge them into exactly the spots they’d been before without saying a word or even realizing she was doing it.
    Not that I was complaining. As apartment mates, we’d been surprisingly compatible, primarily because other than the placement of her knickknacks, Janeece was undemanding and, most of all, rarely here. Between work, church, and a social life so active that she had to use a Filofax to keep track, she was always on the run, which was fine with me. I’d lived alone for years and had no problem with solitude, which presented a niggling area of concern when I tried to imagine my future as Duck’s wife.
    Despite that, I was really looking forward to being with him on a daily—and nightly—basis. As it was, his two-bedroom condo was almost home anyway, in fact technically mine since in a moment of temporary insanity he’d signed it over to me. Yet here I was. Feeling rootless. And envious. And annoyed that I couldn’t put my feet up.
    The hell I couldn’t, I decided.
    I leaned forward to move the candle holders to one end of the coffee table, and my mail slid off the futon onto the floor. I picked them up. Big deal. My Mobil bill. A credit card lure, thank you, no. An announcement of a sale at Salina’s, the second I’d received recently. I wondered how I’d gotten on their mailing list, especially since I’d never been in the store. It was way up on Wisconsin Avenue, and I’d have to take out a loan to be able to afford anything hanging on their racks. Again, thank you, no.
    The last piece of mail was a plain white envelope addressed in block letters, canceled in D.C. No return address.
    Curious, I opened it. A review of Macbeth, onstage in Chicago. Why would