Death Angel Read Online Free PDF

surveyed the living
room, soothed by the warmth evident in the arrangement of the furnishings. The
upholstery fabrics and draperies were varied tones of yellow and cream. The
only bright splash of color in the room was the red in the painting that hung
above the fireplace.
    Carl remembered seeing the picture. He
had commented on it, and Kate had told him with pardonable pride that Richard
had painted it. Moving closer to the mantel, he stared up at the rain scene, a
moment in time caught forever in swirling brushstrokes on the canvas.
    Beneath red umbrellas, two figures in
yellow slickers and black boots splashed in a puddle. The woman’s face was in
shadow, but the child’s laughing features were so meticulously painted that
Carl imagined he could hear her girlish shrieks in the corners of the room.
With a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, he realized that the child
would never laugh again.  
    Jenny Warner, the model for the picture,
was dead.  
    Carl turned his back and faced the
archway as footsteps sounded in the hall and the telephone shrilled. Richard
Warner came into view just as the doorbell rang, a quieter echo to the strident
tone of the phone.
    “Good God, now what!” Richard said,
rubbing a hand across his forehead. He reached toward the doorknob, hesitated
for a moment, then snatched the door open. The conversation was unintelligible,
but Richard’s rigid back reflected the controlled pain just beneath the surface.
    “Thank you for coming, Joe,” He accepted
the plastic-wrapped plate thrust into his hand, and began to ease the front
door closed. “I know Kate will appreciate the cake.”
    Once the door was closed he stood
uncertainly with the plate in his hand, then set it on the mahogany table in
the hall, and turned once more toward the living room, extending his hand as he
crossed the carpeting. “Carl. Sorry to keep you waiting, but this place is
bedlam.”
    “Please, don’t give it a thought.”
    “Marian told me that you got rid of
those ghouls out front.”
    “We’ll try to keep the media at a
distance, but it won’t last.”
    “Bastards almost mobbed us when we went
to the funeral home.”
    Richard’s voice was savage and as Carl
opened his mouth to reply, the phone rang again.
    “It’s been like this ever since we came
home last night. Joe Bushnell, the guy who just brought the cake, lives at the
end of the block with his wife. I know people are trying to show their concern,
but it’s about to drive me out of my mind. Come into my studio. There’s no
phone in there.”
    Richard moved to a door at the back of
the living room. Carl followed, entering what appeared to be a converted porch.
Draperies covered the windows on two sides, but were open over the windows that
faced out onto a fenced backyard. Aside from shelves along the wall that were
crowded with books and papers, the room was surprisingly neat. An easel with a
covered canvas stood in one corner, and facing the backyard, was a drafting
table and stool. Two easy chairs were tucked in a corner and Richard indicated
to Carl that he should take one.
    “Kate will be along in a moment. She’s
having some soup and I told her she had to finish it before she could join
us.”  
    Carl took in the strained air and the
nervous energy carefully held in check. Before he could respond, Richard
hurried into speech.
    “Thank you for expediting everything
with the funeral home.” His voice shook slightly, but after a shuddered breath,
he managed to continue. “As it stands now there’ll be a wake tomorrow and the
funeral will be Friday. Everyone has been so understanding.”
    “I’m glad.” Inadequate words.
    “Richard?”
    Carl had not been aware of Kate’s
arrival until she spoke. One hand held to the framework of the door and the
other pressed against her throat. Her face was devoid of color except for a
bright slash of lipstick. With her brown hair tied with a rubber band behind
her head, she looked like a teenager