Peony Street Read Online Free Page B

knew for a fact to be a heroin addict and a former prostitute; they were also two of the highest paid actors in the film industry. The supporting actors were actually more compelling, and at least their faces still moved in a natural way. Although a critical failure, the film had recouped its budget and made a substantial profit, so there were a half dozen more similarly themed romantic comedies, or “rom coms” in the works.
    After the movie Claire slept, but fitfully. She kept waking suddenly with a nauseating wrench in her midsection, as if her soul had been let out on a long string while she slept and was suddenly reeled back into her body as she was jolted back into consciousness. It felt like waking up on a rollercoaster. Each time she woke she reached for her phone and was grieved anew to remember it was lost.
    When they landed in DC, Claire found her connecting flight to Pittsburgh had been delayed due to an approaching thunderstorm. Claire was used to such irritating developments. She had puppy training pads that Mackie Pea used while traveling, so she had no reason to go out in the gale force wind and sheets of rain that lashed the terminal windows.
    She reached into her handbag for her smart phone before she remembered again that she’d left it in a cab in London. She wondered if the cabbie found it before one of his passengers did. She was sure she’d never see it again no matter who found it.
    Thunder boomed and lightning shot across the sky as the storm set in, but Claire was used to the hurry up and wait atmosphere of filmmaking, not to mention all the accompanying loud drama. She knew how to block out the noise by focusing on frivolous distractions. She bought some fashion magazines and camped out in the gate waiting area.
    The storm moved out within an hour but so many flights were backed up Claire realized it would be quicker to drive. She got her ticket refunded from the polite people at the British Airways counter and then stood in line with several dozen other people who suddenly wanted to rent a car. She was exhausted from her journey but was determined to get home.
    Once on the road in a rental car, as the terrain changed from hills to mountains, nostalgia overcame her and she allowed the repressed tears to fall. Even though it had been several years since she’d been home, she didn’t need a map or a GPS to find her way back to Rose Hill.
     
     
    Claire left her car in the middle of the street and ran to the fire station, where she knew someone would be awake. It turned out to be Malcolm Behr, the fire chief, and quite possibly the hairiest man Claire had ever met. Claire could easily imagine him in a kilt with his face painted blue, wielding an ax as he charged across a Scottish battlefield.
    “Claire Fitzpatrick,” he said. “When did you get back?”
    Claire told him what she’d found and Malcolm called Police Chief Scott Gordon. He picked up an EMT kit and a flashlight and followed Claire back to where the body lay illuminated by her headlights. Malcolm checked the man’s pulse and told Claire what she already suspected.
    “He’s dead,” Malcolm said, and then pointed the flashlight at the front bumper of Claire’s car.
    Claire’s father had been chief of police in Rose Hill for thirty years, so she knew where this was headed.
    “I didn’t hit him,” Claire said. “I just drove here from DC after flying there from London, and he’s probably been lying here for awhile. You can check my plane ticket and make a time table; I’ll help you do it.”
    “Time enough for all that,” he said. “That’ll be Scott’s problem, not mine.”
    “Do you know who it is?” she asked.
    “He doesn’t look familiar to me,” Malcolm said. “It’s hard to tell with all the blood.”
    Scott arrived, looking sleepy and rumpled in the foggy glow of the streetlight. Claire, who out of habit always thought in terms of movies and casting, cast Scott in the part of a minor league baseball