Dead by Any Other Name Read Online Free PDF Page A

The porch had a wicker loveseat and a couple of vintage metal lawn chairs, felt like a place where Natasha hung out—there was a coffee table with a few mugs on it, a Larry McMurtry novel, an iPod dock, candles, incense. No sign of a struggle. I tried the front door of the house, locked. There was a window that opened into the living room, it was open a crack. I pushed it up and clambered inside. Was I breaking and entering? Nah, I didn’t break anything.
    The living room was bone quiet and looked just like it had two days, just forty-eight hours ago, when Natasha had filled it with her longing, her voice, her fear. Midday light filtered through the surrounding greenery poured into the room, emerald and eerie, the berry cake she had made for us was still sitting on the table. There was a small ashtray with a roach in it; I didn’t remember that from Saturday. Maybe the gorgeous boyfriend was a pothead. No signs of a struggle. Just a palpable sense of emptiness, the room felt so much like Natasha—quirky, creative, soulful … and gone.
    I walked into the bedroom. It was painted a warm rosy beige and was dominated by an enormous bed with an old wool blanket on it. Clothes and shoes spilled out of the closet, the dresser top was covered with jewelry, make-up, fring-frungs. The room was cozy, sexy, girly, haphazard. I opened the dresser drawers and rummaged through the clothes. I looked in the bedside table—just the usual random clutter. I walked over to the shallow closet. She had an amazing array of clothes, ranging from campy retro to exquisite vintage to tossed-off hip. I pushed the clothes aside. There, hanging on hooks on the back wall, was a black leather corset, long black leather gloves, three whips, on the floor in front of them were thigh-high black leather boots with stiletto heels.
    It all looked well-used.

ten
    â€œToshy, tooshy, whooshy!” the woman’s voice cried as the screen door slammed. I pushed the clothes back to cover the S&M paraphernalia and tried to look nonchalant. “Where are you, honeybabe?” The owner of the voice appeared in the bedroom doorway, stopped short—“Oh, hey. Who’re you?”
    I pegged her for pushing sixty, wearing a long skirt with a zigzag hem, cowboy boots, a billowy blouse, leather belt with a big silver buckle, her hair was bottle blonde, her face lively but raggety and worn, with some serious black eyeliner and magenta lipstick—all-in-all she looked like Stevie Nicks if Stevie Nicks had been waiting tables, smoking Marlboros, and drinking cheap white wine for forty years.
    â€œI’m Janet, a friend a Natasha’s.”
    Her eyes narrowed. “She never mentioned a girlfriend named Janet.”
    â€œUm, we’re recent friends. I have a store down in Sawyerville, I’m selling some of her jewelry.”
    A smile spread across the woman’s face and suddenly she radiated a hardbitten warmth, “Oh, shit yeah, of course . I’m the one’s been telling her to sell that stuff, she needs to cash outta here, baby. Course I’m gonna miss the motherfuck out of her when she’s gone, but ya gotta do what ya gotta do, right? I’m Billie, by the way, Tosh’s best friend, older sister, country mama, whatever. Where is that girl?”
    She didn’t know. And I had to tell her.
    â€œWhy don’t we go sit in the living room?” I said.
    She could sense it in my tone. “What the fuck’s up?”
    â€œLet’s sit.”
    I led her into the living room and we both sat on the couch.
    â€œBillie, I have some sad news.”
    Her mouth opened, her head cocked. “What kinda sad news?”
    â€œVery sad.” I gave her a moment. “Natasha is dead.”
    Her expression froze, but tears welled in her eyes. “How?”
    â€œShe died up on Platte Clove, she fell off a cliff, right now they think it was an accident or that she may have killed