Did You Declare the Corpse? Read Online Free PDF

she had that crush on him,” I reminded myself. “She didn’t get tall for a couple more years. And maybe he was thin before he started eating his wife’s cooking.” Now his potbelly bulged over the belt of his tartan slacks. The only thing I could find remotely attractive about him was the red hair that waved away from his forehead and curled around his ears.

    He was so engrossed in collecting luggage while talking to Laura that he staggered in without tipping the cabbie. The man glared after them, then left with a screech of burning rubber.

    Kenny set down his bags and stuck out a hand to Joyce. “Sorry we’re a bit late. We ran up to Phipps Plaza for a little while.” “Phipps Plaza” is synonymous with “expensive stores” in Atlanta. Kenny seemed to presume his explanation would atone for keeping the rest of us waiting. “Honey, you remember Laura MacDonald.” He pulled Laura toward his wife.

    “Sure. Hello.” Sherry gave Laura a hug that came straight from a Deepfreeze.

    “That’s MacLaren Yarbrough, who’s come with me on the trip.” Laura nodded in my direction. I waved from my chair. They’d be coming my way eventually, so there was no reason to make that trek across the wide lobby.

    Kenny bounded over to shake my hand. “I like your checked britches,” I told him. Mama always said if you can’t find something nice to say about somebody, make up something.

    “Tartan breeks,” he corrected me. He lifted one leg and twirled it a little to show them off. He must have bought new loafers, too. Their shine was dazzling. “They’re the Stewart hunting plaid,” he added in an offhand way. “I’m a direct descendant of Robert the Bruce.”

    Thank goodness he’d chosen the Stewart hunting plaid, which is mostly green with navy, instead of their more flamboyant red tartan. But if you want my opinion (and even if you don’t), neither checked britches nor tartan breeks look good on a chubby figure.

    Laura joined Kenny and me, but Sherry had grabbed Joyce’s elbow and pulled her into a corner next to a drooping ficus tree that the nursery owner in me wanted to give a long drink of water. Sherry spoke in a low, urgent voice, nodding toward Laura and me. Whatever she was saying, Joyce shook her head. Sherry pointed a finger at Joyce, used it to emphasize her words. Joyce stepped back like she was afraid of getting stabbed. Sherry followed. Joyce backed another step. Joyce reached the ficus and could go no farther. Finally she lifted one hand and shrugged. “I can check with our office,” she said in a voice that carried all the way to us.

    “You do that,” Sherry told her. “That’s what we were promised. Now what are we to do with this luggage until the flight?”

    They were still carrying bags to the storage room when a gray limousine pulled up to the motel and a uniformed chauffeur got out.

    “The Gordons,” Joyce breathed, more to herself than to us. She moved toward the door, as if to go outside to greet them, then must have changed her mind, for she went to the front window and stood concealed by the drape. We watched a tall, lanky man with a shock of thick white hair climb out on the far side and follow the chauffeur around back. Around sixty, he had a beak of a nose on a profile that could have been chiseled out of Stone Mountain granite.

    Most folks would know at a glance that here was a man accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed. Joe Riddley has that same kind of presence. He just doesn’t wear tailor-made suits and a gold pinky ring.

    While the chauffeur lifted out four leather bags, butter-soft from much travel, the tall man made no effort to help except with instructions. When a violin case appeared, however, he reached for it and his ring glinted in the sun.

    “What’s with all the musical instruments?” I asked Joyce.

    Joyce’s attention was riveted on the limo’s back door, so Laura answered. “It was in the last e-mail we got. We’re attending a