Always Time To Die Read Online Free PDF

once used by visiting dignitaries and now home to Pete and Melissa Moore.
    “Interesting,” Carly murmured into the microphone. “Most people cover their pools in winter. Wonder if there’s a story behind that, or if it’s just an oversight because of the Senator’s long decline.”
    The shorter side of the boomerang enclosed Miss Winifred’s suite and the specialized accommodations for her sister, Sylvia Quintrell, the Senator’s widow. Not that Sylvia knew she was a widow. She hadn’t spoken to anyone or otherwise acknowledged her surroundings since the 1960s.
    “Note: See if there are any movies or videos of Mrs. Quintrell before her illness.”
    Carly crossed the patio, skirted the pool, and arrived at Winifred’s door on a blast of wind that rocked her. She lifted the antique knocker—an upside-down horseshoe, to hold all the luck inside—and rapped three times.
    No sound came from inside the house.
    She waited, shivering in the wind. She’d decided to knock again, harder, when the door opened. Alma’s angular, aloof face appeared in the narrow opening. The maid didn’t say a word.
    “Miss Winifred is expecting me,” Carly said.
    Alma hesitated just long enough to make Carly angry before she stepped out of the way and grudgingly allowed the guest inside. Alma looked mussed and irritated, as though she’d been interrupted in the middle of some important task.
    “You’d be much more attractive if you’d smile,” Carly said pleasantly in the language Alma acted as if she didn’t understand. “Perhaps if you smiled more, you’d be married.”
    Alma’s eyes narrowed slightly, telling Carly what she already knew: the maid understood English quite well.
    “But not all women are suited for marriage, are they?” Carly continued in the same friendly voice. “Though it’s a pity you don’t have Miss Winifred’s resources. Being a housemaid at seventy sounds quite bleak.” Carly’s sympathetic smile was all teeth.
    Alma was forced to smile and nod in return, the timeless response of someone who didn’t comprehend a language—or wanted to appear not to understand.
    “Very good,” Carly said. “You’re quite pretty when you smile.” For a bitch.
    The maid turned abruptly and led the way through a living room, past a small kitchen-dining area, and through the double doors that combined Winifred’s bedroom with her sister’s rooms. With a curt gesture, Alma turned and walked away, her spine straight and her dark slacks rumpled.
    Carly took in the room with a glance. Sylvia Quintrell was a slight, motionless mound beneath the blankets of a hospital bed. An IV dripped fluid and medicines into her body. A feeding tube lay concealed beneath the blankets. The bed was positioned so that its occupant could look out over the patio gardens and pool. The murmur of Jeanette Dykstra’s muckraking talk show Behind the Scenes came from an old TV set.
    The room was hot enough to grow orchids.
    Winifred sat in a leather recliner next to the bed. She was wearing black—blouse, jacket, slacks, and shoes. It wasn’t out of respect for the recently dead Senator. Black was simply her preferred color.
    Her eyes were closed and her right hand was wrapped around her sister’s slack fingers. An old, heavy Indian turquoise ring and matching cuff bracelet rested uneasily on her lean hand and wrist. The silver gleamed with the soft patina of constant use.
    Slowly Winifred opened her eyes. They were dark, full of emotions. Carly wondered if the older woman would be willing to share those emotions with the family historian she’d hired, apparently over the protests of the rest of the Quintrells.
    “Sit down,” Winifred said, gesturing toward an overstuffed chair. “Take off your jacket.” She leaned forward and fed a chunk of piñon into the fire. “I keep the room warm for Sylvia.”
    Gratefully, Carly peeled off her jacket and hung it over the arm of the chair. “Thank you.” She looked toward the bed. “How