T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril Read Online Free
Author: T. Lynn Ocean
Tags: Mystery: Cozy - Security Specialist - North Carolina
about it?”
“Do you know who did it?”
He gave me an are-you-stupid-or-what look. “If I knew who did it, don’t you think I would have reported it to the police?”
“You didn’t file a report?”
“Nothing was taken. And I hadn’t yet bought renter’s insurance, so replacing what they broke is out of my pocket anyway. Why bother with the police?”
Morgan politely answered my questions until I ran out of things to ask. I learned that he’d worked long enough at his prior job to accrue a nice chunk of change in a 401(k) plan and that he was vested in a pension plan. He’d never been married and didn’t have kids. He did have a girlfriend, who had moved to Wilmington with him. He’d purchased a ring and was planning a marriage proposal when she’d suddenly broken it off, claiming the relationship had become stagnant. That was just after they’d moved, and she hadn’t bothered to unpack her boxes of clothes. She’d simply showed up with a local moving truck and two men, who carried her stuff out of their rental. Morgan professed to be over the breakup. He had met plenty of new friends, he said. It was a declaration he couldn’t quite pull off.
Overall, I didn’t learn much, except that the judge was right. Her brother was soft-spoken and introverted to the point of being shy. And he was hiding something.
I went to the restroom before leaving and, on the way, took a bound journal from the host stand. The women’s bathroom was elegant and clean and fresh-smelling. On the way out, I returned the journal, minus the past two weeks’ worth of reservations and patron phone numbers. I had no idea how I’d use the information, but maybe a name on the list would connect with something else. Then I’d have an actual clue.
THREE
Smelling savory cinnamon rolls, I awakened from a dream that I was standing in line at a bakery. I sniffed the air to make sure it wasn’t a lingering olfactory trick and surmised that my father’s girlfriend had delivered breakfast. Either that, or Fran had spent the night and was now baking cinnamon rolls. Even though our kitchens are connected and Spud usually comes and goes through my place, his apartment has its own stairwell entrance that leads directly to the Barter’s Block parking area. The building used to be a trading post in the early 1800s and at one point in history after the Civil War had served as a brothel. I imagined Fran sneaking in through Spud’s private stairwell, much the way satisfied men used to exit by the same wooden stairs.
I pulled a cushy chenille robe over a La Perla chemise and followed my nose. Spud sat in my kitchen, reading the newspaper and slurping a chocolate Yoo-hoo. He’d never bothered to put a table in his own kitchen, and we’d settled into a routine of sharing ourmornings on my side of the French doors. He sported a brand-new mustache that looked like it had ambitions of growing handlebars someday. Undoubtedly one of Fran’s suggestions, it grew out solid white. Surprisingly thick. And currently covered with a thin layer of chocolate drink. Imagine Wolfgang Puck, shrink him down, age him twenty years, throw on the mustache, and you’ve got a pretty good mental image of Spud.
“Morning, sweetie!” Fran said to me, fluffing short, curly hair that was currently tinted orange. “You want some coffee?”
“Caffeine would be great, thanks.”
She served a plate of hot cinnamon rolls. Steam rose from their gooey icing tops. Since she wore a robe, too, I guessed that she’d spent the night and arisen early to fix breakfast. Fran is approaching eighty, and Spud recently surpassed the milestone. Ox thinks they make a cute couple. All I know is that Fran makes incredible pies. By the smell of things, her cinnamon rolls would be just as good.
Spud peeped over the top of the sports section. “Today’s paper is nugatory, for crying out loud.”
“Nuga-what?”
He eyed me above his reading glasses. “Nugatory.
“Do you know who did it?”
He gave me an are-you-stupid-or-what look. “If I knew who did it, don’t you think I would have reported it to the police?”
“You didn’t file a report?”
“Nothing was taken. And I hadn’t yet bought renter’s insurance, so replacing what they broke is out of my pocket anyway. Why bother with the police?”
Morgan politely answered my questions until I ran out of things to ask. I learned that he’d worked long enough at his prior job to accrue a nice chunk of change in a 401(k) plan and that he was vested in a pension plan. He’d never been married and didn’t have kids. He did have a girlfriend, who had moved to Wilmington with him. He’d purchased a ring and was planning a marriage proposal when she’d suddenly broken it off, claiming the relationship had become stagnant. That was just after they’d moved, and she hadn’t bothered to unpack her boxes of clothes. She’d simply showed up with a local moving truck and two men, who carried her stuff out of their rental. Morgan professed to be over the breakup. He had met plenty of new friends, he said. It was a declaration he couldn’t quite pull off.
Overall, I didn’t learn much, except that the judge was right. Her brother was soft-spoken and introverted to the point of being shy. And he was hiding something.
I went to the restroom before leaving and, on the way, took a bound journal from the host stand. The women’s bathroom was elegant and clean and fresh-smelling. On the way out, I returned the journal, minus the past two weeks’ worth of reservations and patron phone numbers. I had no idea how I’d use the information, but maybe a name on the list would connect with something else. Then I’d have an actual clue.
THREE
Smelling savory cinnamon rolls, I awakened from a dream that I was standing in line at a bakery. I sniffed the air to make sure it wasn’t a lingering olfactory trick and surmised that my father’s girlfriend had delivered breakfast. Either that, or Fran had spent the night and was now baking cinnamon rolls. Even though our kitchens are connected and Spud usually comes and goes through my place, his apartment has its own stairwell entrance that leads directly to the Barter’s Block parking area. The building used to be a trading post in the early 1800s and at one point in history after the Civil War had served as a brothel. I imagined Fran sneaking in through Spud’s private stairwell, much the way satisfied men used to exit by the same wooden stairs.
I pulled a cushy chenille robe over a La Perla chemise and followed my nose. Spud sat in my kitchen, reading the newspaper and slurping a chocolate Yoo-hoo. He’d never bothered to put a table in his own kitchen, and we’d settled into a routine of sharing ourmornings on my side of the French doors. He sported a brand-new mustache that looked like it had ambitions of growing handlebars someday. Undoubtedly one of Fran’s suggestions, it grew out solid white. Surprisingly thick. And currently covered with a thin layer of chocolate drink. Imagine Wolfgang Puck, shrink him down, age him twenty years, throw on the mustache, and you’ve got a pretty good mental image of Spud.
“Morning, sweetie!” Fran said to me, fluffing short, curly hair that was currently tinted orange. “You want some coffee?”
“Caffeine would be great, thanks.”
She served a plate of hot cinnamon rolls. Steam rose from their gooey icing tops. Since she wore a robe, too, I guessed that she’d spent the night and arisen early to fix breakfast. Fran is approaching eighty, and Spud recently surpassed the milestone. Ox thinks they make a cute couple. All I know is that Fran makes incredible pies. By the smell of things, her cinnamon rolls would be just as good.
Spud peeped over the top of the sports section. “Today’s paper is nugatory, for crying out loud.”
“Nuga-what?”
He eyed me above his reading glasses. “Nugatory.
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