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

thoughts. “Could you hear what the paramedics were saying?” the landlady asked. “They shooed us away and went to work.”
    “Not a word,” Helen said. “They talked softly and looked serious.”
    “The ambulance put the siren on when they took her to the hospital,” Margery said. “Another bad sign. They only use sirens for real emergencies.”
    “At least we know she was still alive,” Helen said. “What was with her ex-husband, Hugo? He stepped over her like she was a hunk of wood.”
    “He’s a real prize,” Margery said. “I wonder why he’s so bitter. He looks like a man who makes trouble for himself.”
    “I’m glad you keyed his car,” Helen said.
    “I didn’t,” Margery said, and grinned. “His car got in the way of my key. Wouldn’t have happened if he’d used better judgment.”
    “About his wife?” Helen said.
    “Ex-wife,” Margery corrected. “Now he’ll have a whopping repair bill to remind him of his bad behavior.”
    The two women were quiet the rest of the way to the Coronado Tropic Apartments. Margery smoked and Helen thought about Annabel and her vivid paintings. The art world would be a less colorful place without her.
    Margery turned off US 1 onto the Coronado’s street, a small slice of Old Florida lined with two-story midcentury modern apartments. At three in the afternoon, the street was cool and shaded by rustling palms, nine-foot scheffleras with thick, waxy green leaves, and Helen’s favorite, graceful royal poinciana trees with flame red flowers. Cerise and purple bougainvillea spilled over the fences.
    The idyllic scene called for birdsong, but instead Helen and Margery heard the screech and roar of heavy machinery.
    “What are the developers tearing down now?” Helen asked.
    “Sunny Vista Apartments, two streets over,” Margery said. “Built the same time as the Coronado—1949. The late owner’s kids sold it.”
    “More condos?” Helen asked.
    “Town houses,” Margery said. “The developers are tearing out the city’s heart. Places like the Coronado are a dying breed.”
    “I hope not,” Helen said. But the Coronado had had a close brush with destruction, until Margery found enough money to restore the place. Greed was wrecking the city.
    “Phil’s Jeep isn’t in the lot,” Helen said. “I hope he gets another job soon. He’s bored and restless.”
    “And you’re not?” Margery asked.
    “I’ve been improving my mind,” Helen said. “It will be fun to take art classes and play lady.”
    “Right. One look at you, and the word ‘lady’ immediately comes to mind,” Margery said.
    Helen tossed back her long dark hair. “Art classes will give me a whole new perspective on my profession,” she said. “The art teacher said so.”
    “She was working her own angle,” Margery said, and gave an unladylike snort.
    But Helen thought their jokes sounded flat. She and Margery were both shaken.
    Margery parked the car in the Coronado lot and Helen followed her through the gate into the sun-splashed courtyard.
    She loved the building’s sleek white curves and fresh turquoise trim. The two-story art moderne apartments were set around the aquamarine pool, shaded by palms and broad green-leaved elephant ears. Waterfalls of ruffled purple bougainvillea surrounded the pool, and the sidewalks were an imperial march of purple impatiens and spiky salvia.
    “What do you want for lunch?” Margery asked.
    “I’m not really hungry,” Helen said. “How about a cold glass of wine by the pool? We can start the sunset salute early.”
    “Only if you eat a chicken and avocado salad to lay down a base,” Margery said. “Then you can drink.”
    “Deal,” Helen said.
    Helen set one of the poolside tables with the purple umbrellas,uncorked the wine and poured two generous glasses, while Margery served the salads. Helen kept her cell phone on the table, hoping to hear from Jenny about Annabel. She and Margery didn’t mention Annabel, but Helen knew