Killing Cousins Read Online Free Page A

pressed this button and that button, and that’s all I needed to know.
    And yet there was still a part of me that really liked the personal touch of the handwritten letter, something that could be kept forever.
    I logged on and that stupid voice declared, “You’ve got mail.” I could see the little flag. I knew I had mail without the moronic voice telling me so. I looked to see whom it was from. Colette sent a Web address on postpartum depression to check out. I deleted it. My cousin in Colorado sent me an e-mail telling me all about her eighteen hours of labor. Luckily, Matthew had only taken about six hours to bring into the world. A friend of Rudy’s sent something, and there was a note from Rudy’s sister. As much as I have become accustomed to the Internet, since most of these people lived within a few miles, I had to ask myself the question: Doesn’t anybody use the damn phone anymore?
    I went to Google and typed in “Catherine Finch.” Of course there were sites that weren’t for my Catherine Finch, so I typed “singer” after her name. It brought up a few different Web sites, and I printed out the relevant pages. I didn’t really have time to stop and read them right now. I would do it later. While the pages were printing, I got my camera together and found my notebook and pen. Once I had printed out what looked like about forty pages’ worth of information from several different sites, I logged off, turned off the computer and went downstairs.
    I grabbed my keys, slipped on the sandals that were sitting by the door, and kissed Rudy and Matthew each on the head.
    â€œWhat about dinner?” Rudy asked before I made it out the door.
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œWhat are we having? Should I lay something out?”
    â€œWe’ll go to Chuck’s for pizza.”
    â€œOkay,” he said.

    Before I could make it out of New Kassel on this postcard-perfect August day, Eleanore Murdoch stopped me in the middle of the road, as she had a habit of doing. She just walked out into the middle of the road and then waited for me to roll down the driver’s-side window.
    â€œYou know, Eleanore, I have an office in this town. A home, a telephone and e-mail. Why must you insist on stopping me in the middle of the road?”
    Eleanore, a woman in her late middle years, top-heavy and broad, had a knack for being irritating. Of course, that was probably what she thought about me as well, so I shouldn’t have been so quick to judge. She had a small gossip column in the town newspaper and fancied herself a literary genius. Which was hysterical because she often spoke like a thesaurus on acid. She and her husband, Oscar, owned and ran the bed-and-breakfast known as the Murdoch Inn. She always stuck her nose where it didn’t belong, and she always thought she should be the first to know everything. There I go describing myself again. Why was it more irritating when she did it?
    â€œThis couldn’t wait,” she said to me, with her big purple plastic earrings clanking together. Eleanore loved costume jewelry, the bigger and brighter the better. And, it seemed, the noisier the better, too. “Have you heard?”
    Her expression was serious, which made me sober up a bit. Eleanore was certainly the Drama Queen of New Kassel, but somehow her expression seemed genuine. “What?” I asked.
    â€œThey’ve put the riverboat casino on the ballot.”
    â€œWhat?” I asked, dumbfounded. This was serious.
    â€œBill wants to bring riverboat gambling to New Kassel.”
    Bill being Bill Castlereagh, the mayor. Funny, his name had come up quite a bit lately.
    â€œAnd evidently, he got the go-ahead from the gaming commission and it’s going to be voted on,” she finished.
    â€œNo way,” I said. This was a catastrophe. An abomination. It wasn’t possible. New Kassel was a historic town. And although I realized that