Death On a No 8 Hook (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page B

box was decorated with a variety of cartoon animals that had found a use for the product. Mannie used most of the box to scrub the blood from his hands and face. When he was finished, he pulled off his suit jacket. There was blood all down the front of his shirt, so he took that off too. Then he put the van in reverse and backed out of the parking slot.
    His hands, as he drove, were slippery on the wheel. The blood was gone, but now he was sweating. Directly above him, the rows of fluorescents made a faint crackling sound, like distant laughter.
    Mannie listened for a moment, and then joined in. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He laughed so loudly that he frightened himself.
    And when he tried to stop laughing, he found he couldn’t.

 
     
     
    Chapter 6
     
    Eddy Orwell arrived at the door of Claire Parker’s apartment at eight-thirty sharp. Parker lived on the third floor of an old converted Victorian house. Orwell buzzed himself in and took the carpeted steps two and three at a time, the snubbie in its shoulder holster bouncing against his chest.
    At the door, he paused to take his pulse. It had accelerated from its usual 48 beats per minute to more than 120 bpm, but Orwell was confident that the swift ascent had little or nothing to do with the increased rate. He was in great shape. It was his emotional state of mind that had sent the blood thundering through his veins. He straightened his dark blue tie, combed his brush-cut with his fingers, and knocked on Parker’s door with a fist the size of a large coconut.
    Parker answered the door wearing six-inch spikes and a pleated black skirt, a white blouse with a high collar. Orwell felt the wind go out of him. In the heels, she was exactly one inch taller than he was, which didn’t do anything at all for his ego. Also, in those clothes, she looked more like a cop than a hot date. But he smiled up at her anyway, because he thought she looked terrific despite everything. He had an almost overpowering urge to take her in his arms, bury his nose in her glossy black hair, nibble at the lobe of a perfect ear, and see what happened next.
    Parker saw the look in his eyes. She’d seen that look before. She knew exactly what it meant, and she knew exactly how to deal with it.
    “I worked all through lunch, Eddy, and I didn’t get home until seven. I’m starving, and the thought of showing up late and finding that we lost our reservation does not make me feel all soft and warm inside.”
    “No problem,” said Orwell. “First things first, right?”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    Orwell shrugged. He grinned his pirate’s grin, conscious that his large, square teeth were very white against his midsummer tan. He lounged against the wallpaper while Parker locked up. This was their third date in less than two weeks. Orwell hadn’t been offered a key, and he wasn’t quite dumb enough to ask for one.
    The restaurant Orwell had chosen was located on Stanley Park’s Ferguson Point. When he’d told Parker where they were going, he thought he’d seen a flash of irritation in her chocolate-brown eyes. But he wasn’t sure, the moment had come and gone and she hadn’t said anything. So he’d let it go.
    Stanley Park is a thousand acres of mostly untended vegetation. It’s shaped like an elephant’s head, is situated at the west end of the city, and is surrounded on three sides by the Pacific Ocean.
    The restaurant was renowned for its fabulous view of the outer harbour, and Orwell had reserved a window table. The restaurant was, by his standards, very expensive. But he had a little surprise tucked up his sleeve, and he was willing to pay almost any price to ensure that this would be an evening the two of them would remember with warmth and affection for the rest of their lives.
    Orwell didn’t argue with Parker when she suggested they take her Volkswagen, and leave his rusted Ford Fairlane at the curb. He was having problems with the automatic choke, and the car kept