Bodies in Winter Read Online Free PDF

small sharp voices rose in song: I’m a little teapot, short and stout . . . Ellen Lodge took another look at the soup, then shut off the crock pot.
    â€˜Gotta let it cool,’ she said. ‘Some of these kids, they don’t even know how to use a spoon. They stick their whole face in the bowl. One of them gets burned, I’ll never hear the end of it.’
    I think she meant the remark as an exit line, but I wasn’t taking the hint. Over the years, I’ve mastered the art of passive-aggression. I’m the Rock of Gibraltar and the only way to move me is to answer my questions.
    â€˜Now, you said your husband asked to live here until he got on his feet. Did he have a job lined up? Any prospects?’
    â€˜Not that I know of. He told me he was gonna look up his old buddies at the Eight-Three, see if they’d help him find something.’
    â€˜So the stay was open-ended?’
    â€˜The stay?’
    â€˜You told me your husband was going to stay with you until he got back on his feet. If he didn’t have a job lined up, he might have been with you for months.’
    Outside, the children broke into widely varying renditions of ‘Frere Jacques’. Ellen listened for a moment, then said, ‘Lemme take out these sandwiches and the juice, get the kids started. If you don’t mind.’
    â€˜Hey, children have to eat. I understand. But just so it won’t be a total loss, would it be alright if my partner and I look through your husband’s room? In case there’s something up there we need to ask you about.’
    I watched Ellen Lodge’s reaction closely. In my experience, even cooperative citizens don’t want cops roaming through their homes unaccompanied. But Ellen continued to replace the caps on the children’s tumblers. ‘It’s the bedroom in the back,’ she told us without raising her eyes from her work. ‘Look anywhere you want.’
    Adele and I took Ellen Lodge at her word, exploring every inch of the room, even checking beneath the mattress. In a bureau drawer, three pairs of newly purchased socks and an unopened three-pack of Jockey briefs nestled in a corner. On the floor, a plastic bag held a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of dirty socks. On the night table, a few toilet articles – razor, shaving cream, toothbrush, deodorant, nail clippers – were scattered next to the lamp. Beyond those items, we found nothing.
    We came downstairs just in time to make the acquaintance of Ellen’s helper, Sonia Ramirov. She told us that she hadn’t known her boss was even married until Lodge had made his appearance that morning. Then she rushed back to her charges.
    For the next ten minutes, I studied Ellen Lodge at work. Though she was patient throughout, cajoling here, firm there, it was obvious to me that she needed more help. What was equally obvious was that she was running an unlicensed, shoestring operation, providing a service to working-class couples who couldn’t afford the real thing. I might have used that against her – Adele would already have done so – but I tend to hoard my ammunition.
    Eventually, Ellen left the children in the care of her helper, then returned to the kitchen. Her timing, as far as I could tell, was arbitrary. After closing the door, she went to the sink and rinsed her hands.
    â€˜You’re very good with the kids,’ I told her. ‘They respond to you.’
    She threw me a sharp look, and for a moment I thought she was going to become angry. Then her look softened, the weariness flooding back into her eyes. ‘Me and Dave,’ she told us, ‘we wanted to have kids, but I never got pregnant. A year before he went away, I practically begged him to go with me to a fertility clinic. Big mistake. Dave broke appointments, showed up drunk, threatened the doctors. It was a nightmare.’ She shook her head. ‘So, where were we?’
    â€˜Well,