A Veiled Antiquity (Torie O'Shea Mysteries) Read Online Free PDF Page B

glanced up and Krista Dougherty, the owner of this fine establishment, was smiling down at me from her lofty five-feet-eleven.
    “I am,” I answered her. “I’m in France.”
    She pulled out the chair across from me and sat down. If you were expecting a textbook specimen of the Aryan race to own Fräulein Krista’s, you won’t be disappointed. Krista had ocean blue eyes, dimples, freckles, and natural blond hair, and as I pointed out just before, she is very tall.
    “Well, say hello for me to a wonderful artist I met there four summers ago. His name was Christophe.” She smiled at the memory.
    “I wish I could, because then I wouldn’t need to hunt down a translator. I could ask anybody on the street.”
    “Oh,” she said. “Working on something for Sylvia?”
    “No, this one is just for me,” I said. I couldn’t very well spread the news that these were illegally obtained documents from Marie’s house. I tried to put them back in the envelope as nonchalantly as I could.
    “Just as well, I suppose.”
    “That’s an odd thing to say,” I said. “What do you mean by it?”
    Looking at me peculiarly she said, “Have you read today’s paper?”
    “No. Should I have?”
    She picked at her nails, and genuinely looked as though she didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news. “Well, it seems that Eleanore Murdoch—”
    “Say no more,” I said with my hand in the air. “I’ve been having trouble with that woman all summer. What has she written now? That Sylvia is having an affair with the sheriff, for Pete’s sake?”
    Krista was not smiling.
    “What?” I asked. “Oh, come on. What could Eleanore possibly know that could be that bad? Most everything she prints is an exaggeration anyway.”
    “I’m sure this is an exaggeration,” she said. “But nevertheless, people get things in their head…”
    “What? What? Krista, just tell me what it is right now or … or I’ll dunk your golden locks into a jar of maple syrup!”
    A bubble of contagious laughter spilled from her. “So how many chickens do you and Rudy have now?”
    “About two dozen.”
    “And only one rooster?”
    “Yes, well, he’s a very happy rooster. Quit changing the subject, Krista.”
    “Well, I was thinking that we could strike up a contract. You supply me with eggs every morning for the breakfasts, and I’ll pay you.”
    “Krista!” I said, my patience running out.
    “Well, I guess it won’t hurt, since you can read it anywhere. It seems that Eleanore has accused Sylvia of murder.”
    I laughed. I belly laughed. “That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard,” I said. “Sylvia is a lot of things, but no murderer,” I defended her. “Pray tell, who has she murdered?”
    “Sophie Gaheimer.”
    “Hermann Gaheimer’s wife? Well, that woman died more than seventy years ago.”
    “Yes, and Eleanore claims that Sophie committed suicide as a direct result of an illicit love affair between Hermann and Sylvia,” Krista said. “Thus holding Sylvia responsible.”
    The smile left my face. Not long ago, I discovered the will of Hermann Gaheimer that Sylvia had locked up in a cabinet downstairs in the basement of the Gaheimer House. In it, Hermann left everything to his “beloved Sylvia.” At the time, Hermann was ninety-one or so years old, and Sylvia was but thirty. I had found it strange then that he willed only a small cash settlement to the children he had with Sophie, and instead left everything to Sylvia, but I kept it to myself.
    Sylvia knew that I’d been in the drawer, but I told her that I saw nothing of importance in the file cabinet, and we haven’t spoken of it again.
    “Torie,” Krista said, “you don’t look so well. Have I upset you?”
    “No. You haven’t upset me. Life upsets me.”
    “Well, if it’s any consolation to you, I thought it was rude and very petty,” Krista said. “For Eleanore to print something like that—I mean, I have no great love for Sylvia, but that was