Three Sisters Read Online Free Page A

Andrew Turner usually carries in an inside jacket pocket. Usually. At the moment, which is late in the evening, the communications device is in his leather briefcase, which is in his hotel room, which is on the fourth floor of the Brown Palace, which is where it has been since 1888—on Seventeenth Street in downtown Denver. As it happens, Mr. Turner, husband of Astrid Spencer-Turner, is not in his hotel room with his briefcase, wherein the telephone resides. He may be found in the Brown’s famous Palace Arms Restaurant. Having finished his lobster enchiladas, the diner has his attention focused on the dessert menu. Ah, so many delectable delicacies to titillate the tongue—but too little time to taste each one.
    This is why he does not hear his cell phone ring. Nine times.

    The agitated caller, Astrid Spencer-Turner, his wedded wife of barely one year, is in their home on the so-called Yellow Pines Ranch, which is situated approximately ten miles northwest of Granite Creek, Colorado. The family homestead is a five-hour-and-twenty-minute drive from downtown Denver, which is precisely how long it took Andrew Turner to get to the Brown Palace after he kissed his wife goodbye at 10:00 A.M. on the dot. Turner, who has a master’s degree in computer science from Georgia Tech (the clever fellow graduated in the top 10 percent of his class), is one of those types who does everything by the clock. Precision is his thing . Somewhere, there must be women who appreciate these qualities in a man. Astrid is not one of them. What she appreciates is a husband who remembers to keep his telephone in his pocket and turned on—and answers it when she calls.
    On the ninth ring, Astrid slams her telephone into the cradle hard enough to rattle other items on her bedside table. “Dammit!” Now what should I do? “I’ll call the front desk.” (The young woman has developed the endearing habit of talking to herself. Especially when she is alone in the ancestral family home.)

    “Excuse me, Mr. Andrew Turner?”
    The owner of Granite Creek Electronics and Computers looked up from a four-thousand-calorie slab of cherry cheesecake, flashed a smile at the young man who had addressed him. “That’s me.”
    “I apologize for disturbing you, sir.” The hotel employee offered a cordless telephone to the guest. “You have a call from Mrs. Turner.” He lowered his voice, added discretely: “Urgent.”
    “Thank you.” Turner held his hand over the mouthpiece. “She’s probably just lonely. Or there’s a problem with the plumbing.”
    The young man, who also had a wife, smiled. Excused himself.
    Turner pressed the electronic appliance to his ear. “Hello, dear. What’s up—well pump on the fritz again?”
    “No. Nothing like that.”
    “Ah, you’re lonely then.”
    “I always am when you’re away.”
    “You should have invited one of your splendid sisters over to spend the night.” He smiled. I’d be glad to spend the night with either one of ’em.
    “I called Bea and Cassie just minutes before I rang your cell phone. But neither one answered.” Which is odd, because they’re usually at home on a Monday evening . “Andy, I hate being here all by myself. Especially at night.”
    “Tell you what, babe—next time I come to Denver, I’ll bring you with me. And I’ll take you to the telecommunications show in Vegas. We’ll take in some great floor shows, donate a few dollars to the casinos.”
    “I’ll take you up on that.” Her shudder reverberated along the telephone line. “It feels awfully spooky in this big house.”
    “Spooky? Really, now—Cassie is the one who talks to ghosts of long-dead Egyptians and such.”
    Astrid sniffed and said, “I don’t mean like ghosts and goblins. It’s a different kind of spooky.”
    “Different how?”
    “For one thing, there’s this peculiar odor.”
    The smile slipped off Turner’s perfectly tanned face. “Probably the septic tank. I’ll have someone take a look at