Organize Your Corpses Read Online Free

Tang said.
    “What?”
    “Man paid.” Mrs. Tang pointed toward the window. I saw Mr. Gosh I’m Unavailable amble out of sight.
    I left swinging the plastic bag and whistling bravely.
    On the sidewalk, I froze. There were now seven patrol cars at the corner of River and Hudson. I didn’t think we had that many in Woodbridge. I spotted an unmarked black sedan with a snap-on round red light. Sure enough, Pepper stepped out, thin as a whippet and wearing a form-fitting black coat that made her seem more like a model than a detective. She glanced around elegantly.
    I wasn’t about to find out what was going on. On a day where I’d had to deal with Miss Henley, I couldn’t face Pepper without a chocolate fix. Call me chicken, but I slipped discreetly into the alley next to Tang’s, unwrapped a Mars bar, and ate it in two bites. I waited where I could see but not be seen. I stayed there until Pepper disappeared down the block, accompanied by a cluster of uniformed officers. They kept their hands on the butts of their weapons. But whatever they were doing down at the end of Hudson Street was none of my business.
    I made a dash to my car, made a first-rate U-turn, and raced like hell for home. I took some mean-spirited pleasure thinking that Pepper probably couldn’t chug-a-lug New York Super Fudge Chunk with impunity and keep that figure.
    Seemed only fair.
     
I pulled into the driveway and felt the warm glow that comes from getting home on a wet November workday when it’s already dark in the late afternoon. The pale yellow wood-frame Victorian with the gingerbread trim was starting to feel like my own place. A welcoming light burned in the window of my tiny, perfect second-floor apartment.
    I spotted a face in the first-floor bay window as I parked and struggled out of the car with my purchases and briefcase. Dim streetlights reflected off rimless glasses. The glasses suited Jack Reilly. They were just right for his cute old-young-guy look. Perfect for a onetime dweeb with an equal interest in nineteenth-century European philosophy, high-end racing bicycles, and animals in need of rescue. Normally, I would have loved to stop and chat with Jack. But I needed a few minutes alone to calm my spirit. I planned to put my medicine cabinet in order. Or maybe fluff my towels.
    I wasn’t fast enough. Jack’s door swung open. He leaned his six-foot-two lanky body casually against the frame. Behind him, where anyone else would have living room furniture, I could see the stock from the cycle shop he was planning to set up. I reminded myself that Jack is my good buddy and landlord, not my client, and the state of his living room is none of my concern. Who knows? Maybe hanging tires from ceiling hooks is a cutting-edge trend in interior design.
    “By any chance, could I interest you in a dog?” he said.
    I wasn’t fooled by his expression of extreme innocence. From behind my door on the second floor came the unmistakable sounds of the last dogs Jack had tried to interest me in.
    “I’m trying to cut down. But thanks for asking.”
    “It’s not a terribly large dog. Not huge,” he said.
    “Nope.”
    “Harmless, affectionate, well behaved.” He leaned over and called up the stairs.
    “Actually, I’m good for dogs right at the moment,” I said over my shoulder.
    Jack was undeterred. “The kind of dog who could save your life in an emergency.”
    Like what? A St. Bernard? “It’s so not happening, Jack.” I scurried up the stairs and stuck my key in the lock. I felt a bit silly with a brand-new, high-end dead bolt now that I was back in Woodbridge where a fender bender brings out seven cop cars and a police detective.
    Jack’s size-thirteen Nikes thumped on the stairs after me, although it was hard to hear above the yipping. I opened the door and braced myself for the assault. Two small velvety creatures launched themselves at me, their metronome tails working hard. Truffle, the black mini dachshund, and Sweet Marie,