The Art of Murder (Dead-End Job Mystery) Read Online Free

here now,” Helen told the 911 operator. “Thanks for staying with me. I’m going to hang up now. Thank you.”
    Annabel didn’t react to the shrieking siren or the sudden silence when it was switched off. The red ambulance, lights dancing, crunched across the lot. Four paramedics who looked like bodybuilders poured out, carrying a portable stretcher and other equipment.
    Brisk and businesslike, they took Annabel’s vital signs and then lifted her onto the stretcher. Jenny and Cissy told them about Annabel’s mysterious attack, and gave them her full name: Annabel Lee Griffin. Gretchen, the older woman, gathered up her little brown dog and stood off to the side, watching the show.
    Jenny picked up Annabel’s purse and cane and ran over to Helenand Margery. “Cissy and I are going to Palmetto Hills Hospital,” she said. “Thank you both for your help.”
    Helen gave Jenny her Coronado Investigations card and said, “You’ll call and tell me how Annabel is?”
    “I promise,” Jenny said. “As soon as I know something.”
    Helen watched the paramedics load the unconscious Annabel into the ambulance. Her color had gone from ghost white to gray. She looked like a stone figure on a tomb.

CHAPTER 3
    “D o you think Annabel is going to make it?” Helen asked, grabbing the dashboard as Margery’s big old Lincoln bumped and rocked across the vacant lot.
    The ambulance had roared off, siren screaming, carrying the unconscious Annabel. Her friends Cissy and Jenny followed it to the hospital in their own cars.
    Margery’s strong, veined hands expertly steered her white tank around the ruts and debris, but it took all her concentration to get out of the lot.
    Frigid air blasted from the air-conditioning vents, mixing with the acrid odor of old nicotine. Even the seats and dashboard were fumed with sticky yellow tobacco tar. Helen was grateful for the cool air but hated the cigarette stink.
    When the Lincoln landed on the street with a resentful
clunk
, Margery put it in Park and lit a cigarette. She kept the air-conditioning running but powered down her window and blew a long, satisfied plume of smoke into the air. She closed her eyes and leaned against the headrest.
    Helen let her savor her cigarette awhile, then said, “I was on thephone with 911 and couldn’t really see what was going on. Was Annabel as bad as she looked?”
    “Worse,” Margery said, rolling up her window and pointing the faithful Lincoln toward the Coronado Tropic Apartments near downtown Fort Lauderdale. “Annabel had at least one seizure, a bad one, while we were waiting. Her head really jerked around.”
    They stopped at a red light, waiting to turn onto US 1, a main artery for Florida beach towns.
    “I saw some of that,” Helen said. “The way her body went rigid and then started flailing looked frightening.”
    “It was,” Margery said. “Jenny and I kept Annabel from banging her head around, but that’s all we could do. I hope that seizure wasn’t a stroke and there’s no brain damage. When the seizure was finally over, Annabel was breathing, but that’s about it. By the time the ambulance showed up, she wasn’t reacting to anything. She didn’t move when Jenny wiped her face with cool water.
    “I’m no doctor, but when the paramedics hauled Annabel away, she didn’t look unconscious—she looked like she was in a coma.”
    Coma. Stroke. Brain damage. Helen didn’t want to hear those words. She barely knew Annabel—they’d never even had a conversation. But Helen remembered what the artist had said when Jenny had admired her work:
I’m only a student. I’m still perfecting my techniq
ue.
    Helen had seen only one unfinished painting by Annabel, and she was no judge of art. But she liked Annabel’s crisp, offbeat style and her humble response to Jenny’s extravagant praise. Annabel had lots of talent, without the artist’s big ego. It would be a shame to lose someone so gifted.
    Margery interrupted Helen’s gloomy