Thyme to Live: A We Sisters Three Mystery Read Online Free Page A

Um, he’s ... not here right now. But I—we—don’t have kids, so I don’t think we have an opinion. You should try Mrs. Chandra in 4-B.”
    He hovered his finger over the button marked ‘Chandra.’ “She’s a parent of school-aged children?” he asked.
    “No, but she’s a retired teacher. And a talker.” ‘Keith’ gave a short laugh, as though Mrs. Chandra had waylaid her more than once with an armload of groceries for a nice long chat.
    “Perfect. Thanks so much!”
    “No problem.”
    He grinned at me and then pressed Mrs. Chandra’s buzzer. As promised, she was more than willing to share her thoughts about the state of public education. After about a minute and a half, she paused to take a breath, and Victor pounced.
    “Would you mind if I come inside? The intercom system makes it hard to hear you, and I want to be sure to quote you accurately. Perhaps we can talk in the hallway?” he suggested.
    There were several seconds of silence. I imagined Mrs. Chandra was weighing her safety against her loneliness and desire for the limelight. “I suppose that would be all right. I’m on the fourth floor. I’ll meet you in the hallway.” A long metallic click sounded, and Victor pushed open the door.
    We were in.
    “Now what?” I whispered as he hurried passed the rows of metal mailboxes and through an interior door.
    “Now we take the stairs to the second floor,” he said, pushing open a metal fire door and ushering me into a dimly lit stairwell.
    “What about Mrs. Chandra?”
    He shrugged. “She’ll get tired of waiting and go back inside. She’ll forget all about us in no time.”
    I tried to shake the icky feeling that I got thinking of the gregarious old lady waiting a few floors above and mounted the stairs behind him.

4
    W e came to a stop outside Helena’s door. He rattled the knob. I shifted nervously and checked the hallway for traffic. There was none. No residents headed to the laundry room. In fact, it was eerily quiet. No televisions blared from behind the rows of closed doors. No voices raised in conversation or argument floated out into the hallway. The only sounds I heard were my own shallow breathing and my thrumming heartbeat.
    The only evidence that the second floor was inhabited at all was the faint aroma of stale curry that hung in the air like a cloud. As an apartment dweller myself, I’d recognize that smell anywhere. The mayor’s next initiative should be to require all Indian takeout to be eaten with a window open. Or to install functioning exhaust fans in the city’s apartment buildings. Something.
    I shook my head and pulled myself back to attention. Presumably, we were about to break into Helena’s apartment. I supposed I should be paying closer attention, so that I could at least testify against Victor and get myself a better deal when we got convicted. I wondered idly if Rosemary’s boyfriend would write me a character reference, and, if so, how much weight the word of a Los Angeles detective would carry with New York law enforcement.
    And then, Victor gave the doorknob another turn. It swung open.
    He turned and looked at me, wide-eyed and pale-faced. Apparently, he was as surprised as I was to find it unlocked.
    “Now what?”
    In answer, he gulped and stepped across the threshold.
    Please don’t let her be having a baby oil party . I sent out my plea to the universe and followed him inside.
    He reached behind me and pulled the door shut gently.
    Or dead, I quickly amended. Please don’t let us find Helena’s decomposing body. Especially not dead in the middle of a baby oil party.
    We stood just inside the doorway and surveyed the small apartment. The galley kitchen was dark. From what I could see, no glasses or dishes sat in the sink. But that didn’t mean much. The average kitchen in a New York apartment was too old and dated to support much cooking. Its highest and best use was as supplemental closet space. Myself, I stored my sweaters in my oven and used