Acts of Malice Read Online Free PDF Page B

with her wee purse.
    ‘‘Shut up, Ed,’’ she snarled. She turned to Nina. ‘‘Ignore him. You get in there and cancel that trial.’’
    So to Mr. Geiger’s secret relief they did that, and Nina filed some papers across the hall at the clerk’s office, and by the time she had finished her errands the D.A.’s office was closed and it was getting dark. Bob would be waiting at home. She hauled herself up into the Bronco, slung the briefcase into the back seat, and drove down Pioneer Trail toward Kulow Street.
    Winter was closing in so early! How high would the snow go this year? She looked at the snow wands lining the road, about eight feet high. On the other side of the lake, at the Donner Party memorial, there were trees the pioneers had sawed to make their huts in the snow—and the stumps were thirteen feet above the ground.
    Well, she’d chosen to live in the Sierra. This winter she would get a really cool-looking pair of boots.
    The day had been long and jumbled, like most of her days, a result of billing her work time in tenths of hours. She was really looking forward to the peace of home. Bits sloshed around in her brain—Jim Strong’s weary blue eyes and restless body, Heidi Strong’s note—she’d have to get on that autopsy report first thing tomorrow —and Mr. Geiger’s face when Mrs. Geiger walloped him—she’d misjudged the Geiger marriage; Mrs. Geiger could take care of herself—and what was in the fridge to cook for supper and boy oh boy a glass of chilled Clos du Bois would really hit the spot as soon as she got the pantyhose off—if only Bob didn’t have algebra homework . . .
    And Collier Hallowell, back at work as if he’d never left, only a tall familiar impression in the hall, he had passed in such a hurry. She hadn’t really expected ever to see him again. How long had it been? Ten, no, eleven months.
    Where had he been? The last time she had seen him, just before he left town, he was so thoroughly screwed she had wondered how he could ever recover.
    ‘‘Where’s my boy?’’ she called as she burst into the cabin. All the lights in the place were on. No sign of Bob—he must be out with Hitchcock running around the neighborhood. She stripped down in the bedroom, hanging her clothes on a chair, pulled on jeans and her new sweater, a long apple-green number, then went in to make dinner.
    Fifteen minutes later meatloaf and rice baked in the oven. Nina sat on the rug in the living room in front of a bright fire sipping her glass of wine and watching the six o’clock news. Suddenly, with a bark and a slam, Bob and Hitchcock blasted in through the front door. Hitchcock, having the advantage of two extra legs, made it to her first. ‘‘Good boy,’’ she said as she put her arms around his furry neck, but a dreadful putrid odor exuded from him and she jumped away, startling the dog, who knocked over her wine.
    ‘‘My wine! What’s that smell?’’ she cried. ‘‘Oh, no. My sweater!’’
    ‘‘Well, here’s what happened,’’ Bob said dramatically, spreading his hands toward the dog but not touching him. ‘‘He was nosing around in the bushes. It was dark, I couldn’t see so well, but he wouldn’t come, so I went back to look for him. Guess where I found him?’’
    ‘‘I have no idea,’’ Nina said, dabbing at the wine with a napkin.
    ‘‘Guess!’’
    ‘‘Why don’t you just tell me,’’ she snapped.
    ‘‘I found him,’’ he paused, setting up the punch line, ‘‘rolling in a dead chipmunk!’’
    ‘‘Ugh!’’ she said. ‘‘Get him out of here!’’ She leaped up and ran for the bathroom, tearing off her sweater as she went. Hitchcock took off after her, glued to her heels, anxious to show her his love. Changing direction abruptly, she ran outside, trapping the dog on the porch.
    ‘‘I’ve got him!’’ Bob called, right behind her.
    ‘‘Put the hose on him!’’
    ‘‘But it’s