A Pinchbeck Bride Read Online Free PDF

“Genevieve had trouble paying her bills. She had to drop some courses because she couldn’t afford the tuition. The poor kid. And she was smart as a whip. I really felt for her, who wouldn’t? But then, this spring, she said some money was coming through. I really thought things were looking up.”
    “Money? She never mentioned that.” Yet something financed her thrift shop spending sprees.
    “She was very modest about it. Never one to put on airs. Like that spoiled brat who just left: ‘My father owns a car dealership, so I’m royalty.’”
    “So Genevieve had come into some money? Was it a lot?”
    The woman, whose badge informed me her name was Trudie, leaned so close I could smell her clove Life Saver. “She confided in me. She said, ‘I’m fixed financially for a while.’ And now dead. God love her.”
    Then the spoiled brat returned and cast off her backpack onto the counter. “I’m tired of being given the runaround,” she snapped. “I pay tuition here, and I expect some service.” I wanted to get Genevieve Courson’s home address and telephone number, but now wasn’t the time. “Genevieve lived in Howard Hall until last year. Her best friend was Peggy O’Connell,” Trudie called as I left.
    The dormitory was a block farther toward Mass Ave, a hideous building of steel, glass, and sparkly beige brick that must have replaced something Victorian that burnt; it had been put up before historic preservation guidelines were in vogue. It was co-ed, but with post 9/11 security in effect, impossible for me to penetrate. Instead I stood helpless under the magnolias blossoming by the entrance. There, a red-headed young man in a Patriots T-shirt accosted me. “You have ‘reporter’ written all over you. Haven’t you exploited this story enough?”
    I challenged him. “What story?”
    “Gimme a break.” He might have been considered handsome, except that his features were too large for his face. He was heavily freckled, muscular, and peeved. “You’re here about Genevieve, aren’t you?”
    Something made me defiant and a little daring. “I found her body.”
    He flinched, lost his composure for a moment. “So what do you want?”
    “Look, I’m not from the media. I work at Mingo House. I knew Genevieve, I liked her. I want to find out if there’s a funeral happening…Were you a close friend?”
    He was chewing gum discreetly, using his back molars. “Peggy O’Connell was her roommate. She lives in Howard 201.”
    “I’m just wondering whether there will be a service or a funeral, anything open to the public.”
    “Genevieve was a very private person.” He had no problem assigning her to the past tense this soon. He rocked gently back and forth on his expensive sneakers, which were emblazoned with silver cheetahs and endorsed by a big basketball star.
    I decided to lie a little. “She mentioned an old boyfriend who was giving her trouble. She’d nicknamed him Nosferatu.” I wanted to say, It wasn’t you, was it?
    He stopped rocking and just stared. “She hadn’t dated anyone since the accident.”
    “What accident?”
    “She was injured last year, in a motorcycle crash. That idiot Zack Meecham drove them both into a tree. She was limping around for months. Hey, I have to get going.” He was jiggling one hairy, muscular leg. He had the calves of a runner. He was the sort who wore shorts the moment the calendar dared announce it was spring, even if the forsythia was still embedded in ice.
    “Go in.” To my surprise, he climbed the steps to the dormitory, inserted a plastic card into a slot and held the buzzing door open for me to enter. “Go see Peggy O’Connell in Room 201.”
    “I’m Mark Winslow. Thanks.”
    “Fletcher Coombs.”
    Room 201 was open, allowing the soft sounds of classical music into the hall. The room was hung with bolts of Balinese batik and posters of Venice, U2, and, of all things, Friedrich Nietzsche. On one wall, a series of shelves held a collection