Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too Read Online Free PDF Page A

infernal, confounded botch!”
    â€œCool your jets,” said Emma. “We’ll call a tow truck.”
    â€œThe devil with that!” He reared back and gave the trailer hitch an ineffectual kick. Then, “Ow!”
    â€œWhat are you trying to do? Break your foot?” Emma bent and expertly pulled the pin from the hitch.
    Immediately, the trailer disengaged from the car and keeled over. We heard the motorcycles crunch under the weight of the trailer.
    Pointy squinted at my sister with new respect. “You’re not half bad for a hoyden. You’re one of those Blackbird widows, right?”
    â€œDon’t get your hopes up, old man. I only date grown-ups.”
    Affronted as a maiden aunt who’d just heard a naughty limerick, he blustered, “Don’t be ridiculous, young lady! I am a gentleman!”
    â€œThat’s what they all say. Hey, are you hurt?”
    â€œCertainly not. I’m as tough as pemmican.” He used his knobby knuckles to rap his own skull. “See? Indestructible!”
    â€œMaybe we should take you to the hospital, just to be sure.”
    â€œI’d rather be boiled in oil by South Sea savages than set foot in a germ factory like a hospital. No, thank you, no hospitals for me!”
    â€œHumor me, you old geezer. Let’s get you checked out.”
    â€œYou’ll have to wrestle me to the ground,” he replied. “And a little wisp like you would have your hands full.”
    â€œWho you calling a—hey, where are you going?”
    He had turned away and marched back to his car. “I have pressing matters to attend.”
    â€œBut what about your trailer?” Emma called.
    â€œLeave it!”
    Without further exchange, Pointy climbed back into his Bentley, started the engine with a roar and drove off in a spray of gravel.
    Emma walked back to me. “What the hell is a pemmican, anyway?”
    â€œI always thought it was like beef jerky.”
    â€œWhat a loon. Isn’t he the maniac with the Frisbees?”
    Millionaire Pierpoint Fitch had not settled into a dignified retirement from his long and spotty banking career with a suitably quiet pastime like stamp collecting. No, Pointy Fitch had taken up sports and traveled around competing in everything from miniature golf to the senior badminton championship. His family thought he was eccentric. Everyone else figured he was nuts.
    Eyeing the crushed motorcycles, I had to agree with them. “I thought Pointy was into tennis and archery. This looks dangerous.”
    Emma nodded. “Last I heard, he was shooting marbles at some coot convention in Atlantic City. Where do you suppose he’s off to in such a hurry today?”
    â€œA Mensa meeting?”
    Emma laughed. Except for a few distant cousins, none of the Fitches were known for the sharpness of their wits.
    â€œLook,” I said, “thanks for bringing me, but there’s no need for you to stick around. I’ll walk up to the house from here. Delilah’s bound to be waiting for me.”
    â€œForget it,” said Emma. “I’ll go park by the sheep barn and come find you. Don’t slip and fall. This sidewalk hasn’t been swept in years.”
    As she drove away, I hiked up the slate walkway into the geometrically perfect garden of yews, ornamental trees and delicate ground covers. If the Fitches lacked the education and God-given talent to create great beauty, at least they had enough sense to hire those who did. Although it had been ages since a gardener had properly tended the elaborate plantings, I could still see the bones of good design beneath the overgrowth.
    I slowed my pace as I reached the fountain—empty today but for the marble figure of a naked woman taking aim with a bow and arrow, symbols of the Fitch family’s favorite pastime. The huntress had always made me smile because her eyes were slightly crossed. I reached out and gave her bare behind a pat,