An Appetite for Murder Read Online Free Page B

either,” I said, my desperation gathering momentum by the second. “Would there be any chance you would please, please call them and tell them I had nothing to do with Kristen dying?”
    “I don’t know that,” said Chad in an ice-­cold voice. “How would I know what you’re capable of?”
    My gut clenched as I realized he might have actuallyfingered me. After I moved from New Jersey to be with him and two months of living together—­his having to carry spiders outside because I couldn’t bear the thought of murdering them when they might have a family—­he believed I’d kill a real person? That made me feel helpless—­and mad. I flashed on the belongings he’d failed to return, and that made me madder.
    “Since I’ve got you on the line, could you at least give my stuff back? I’ve sent you four e-­mails over the past two weeks and Deena swears your server is working just fine. You can stick the box out in the hall, as far as I’m concerned.”
    “I haven’t kept anything of yours.”
    “Have a heart, Chad. You’ve got my books and my Japanese knives and my grandmother’s recipe box—”
    No answer from Chad, just the lonely void of a dead connection. Rat bugger.
    I squeezed the END button. Almost home now, I dialed up Connie to see if she was free to help drown my sorrows while we thought of a plan. But my call went directly to voice mail. So as I made my way down the dock past Miss Gloria’s little yellow boat and then the Renharts’ boxy two-­story, I called Eric, who on Mondays closed up his psychotherapy office at four thirty.
    “Meet me at the Green Parrot? I’m buying.”
    He hesitated. “I’m beat. I had six patients scheduled and two extras had crises that couldn’t wait. One of them involved decorating choices. White or beige?” He sounded annoyed and exhausted—­he never talked about the details of his patients. The town was too small to risk spreading gossip. The coconut telegraph, he called it.
    “That bluegrass band you like is doing a sound check,” I said, thinking the promise of a mini musical set at happy hour would be more appealing than weeping. “That adorable guy you have the hots for will be playing the mandolin,” I wheedled. “Besides, I really need to talk with you. Kristen Faulkner was found dead today and they think she was murdered. I think I’m a suspect,” I finished, my words trailing off all weak and wobbly. “I need a voice of reason.”
    “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he said in his best calming shrink voice. “Don’t blow a gasket.”
    “I hope you don’t say things like that to your paying customers,” I said, laughing through my sniffles of relief. “See you there.” I dashed inside to slap on a little mascara and tell Evinrude where I was going, then trotted back down the dock to the parking lot. I hopped on my scooter, a secondhand silver KYMCO that allegedly gets ninety-­eight miles to the gallon, and putt-­putted out onto the road.
    I motored up Truman (also known as the most southern and final leg of Route One) to Whitehead and two blocks right to the Parrot. “No sniveling since 1890” the sign outside read. Apropos for me today, for sure.
    This bar, with its white frame, green trim, and wooden shutters pinned open, may have been named one of the top twenty-­four bars in the United States by
Playboy
, but it still didn’t look like much. The bar owners had gone for the kind of simple, homey decor that improved with spilled beer.
    After ordering a couple of Sunset Ales, I grabbed a basket of popcorn—­the only food available at theParrot—and headed to the Whitehead Street side of the room. I secured us space on the wide shelf by an open window, where we’d have a chance to hear each other without shouting over the music and the happy hour crowd. The mandolin player was flat-­picking a cheerful duet of Rocky Top with the guy on banjo, which wasn’t quite enough to keep the detective’s last words from