Killing Her Softly Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Beverly Barton
hall. No, he probably wouldn't get any sleep tonight. He didn't want to close his eyes because he knew what he'd see. Lulu's lifeless body lying there on her bed. Beautiful and sexy, even in death. And her bloody hand, one digit missing. Why would anyone cut off her index finger?
Annabelle waited for Dr. Martin on the far side of her uncle's bedroom, Wythe at her side. He'd been remarkably well-behaved keeping his own emotions in check and actually putting his father's needs first. She supposed in his own selfish way, Wythe did love Uncle Louis.
"No, please, please, tell me it isn't true," Louis Vanderley moaned as the sedative his personal physician had given him began to take effect. "My little Lulu. My precious baby girl. She can't be dead."
"Just lie back and relax, Louis," Dr. Martin said.
"Annabelle?" her uncle called for her.
She went to his bedside. Dr. Martin looked at her sympathetically, then moved aside. Annabelle leaned over and took her uncle's hand.
"I'm right here," she told him.
"Go to Memphis. Find out what happened. Our Lulu can't be dead."
She squeezed his age-spotted hand. "I'll leave first thing in the morning. And I'll call you as soon as I know anything."
"Someone has lied to us," Louis said his voice a mere whisper. "Lulu isn't dead."
Annabelle leaned over and kissed her uncle's forehead. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. She eased the satin coverlet up and over his chest. Uncle Louis was her father's elder brother. Her father had been the youngest of four, fifteen years his elder brother's junior. There had been two sisters born between them. Meta Anne, who'd passed away only a few years ago, an unmarried childless career woman who'd devoted herself to helping Louis oversee the vast Vanderley empire. And Annabelle, the sister who'd died in the forties with infantile paralysis at the age of three. That Annabelle, as well as the present Annabelle Vanderley , had been named in honor of a great-great-grandmother who'd come from France as the bride of Edward Vanderley in 1855.
"Rest, dearest." Annabelle adored her uncle Louis, who'd been a second father to her since her own father had died of a heart attack seven years ago. "I'll find out what happened to Lulu. I promise."
Dr. Martin stopped her on her way out of the room. "Annabelle?"
"Yes?"
"He's seventy-eight, in poor health and has received a terrible shock," Dr. Martin said.
"Are you trying to tell us that he might die?" Wythe asked.
"Hush." Annabelle glanced at her uncle, who seemed to be asleep, then glowered at Wythe. "He might hear you."
"He's out cold" Wythe told her.
"All I'm saying is to prepare yourselves," Dr. Martin said. "Louis could well survive this, but. . . Well, it will depend on his will to live, at least in part. I've seen it happen before, patients who give up the will to live and die in a few weeks or a few months."
"I'll give him something to live for," Annabelle said. "Once he accepts that Lulu is dead he'll want to see her killer punished. That alone will keep him going."
Dr. Martin shook his head. "Revenge can be a strong mo tivator. Just be careful that it doesn't turn on him. And on you."
"I wasn't referring to revenge. What I want—what Uncle Louis will want—is justice."
Quinn lay in the bed, the back of his head resting in his cupped hands, his fingers entwined. A cup of tea, a couple more aspirins and a sympathetic ear had partially eased his headache but hadn't helped him fall asleep. In a few short hours, he would have to return to police headquarters and answer more questions. Be grilled about Lulu's death.
God, how he wanted to turn back the clock and-—and do what? Decline Lulu's offer to come to Memphis? Arrive at Lulu's house in time to stop her killer?
He flopped over and glanced at the digital bedside clock. Four forty-three.
Lulu had loved life about as much as anybody he'd ever known. There wasn't anything she wouldn't try, at least once. At twenty-seven, she'd had her
Annabelle waited for Dr. Martin on the far side of her uncle's bedroom, Wythe at her side. He'd been remarkably well-behaved keeping his own emotions in check and actually putting his father's needs first. She supposed in his own selfish way, Wythe did love Uncle Louis.
"No, please, please, tell me it isn't true," Louis Vanderley moaned as the sedative his personal physician had given him began to take effect. "My little Lulu. My precious baby girl. She can't be dead."
"Just lie back and relax, Louis," Dr. Martin said.
"Annabelle?" her uncle called for her.
She went to his bedside. Dr. Martin looked at her sympathetically, then moved aside. Annabelle leaned over and took her uncle's hand.
"I'm right here," she told him.
"Go to Memphis. Find out what happened. Our Lulu can't be dead."
She squeezed his age-spotted hand. "I'll leave first thing in the morning. And I'll call you as soon as I know anything."
"Someone has lied to us," Louis said his voice a mere whisper. "Lulu isn't dead."
Annabelle leaned over and kissed her uncle's forehead. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. She eased the satin coverlet up and over his chest. Uncle Louis was her father's elder brother. Her father had been the youngest of four, fifteen years his elder brother's junior. There had been two sisters born between them. Meta Anne, who'd passed away only a few years ago, an unmarried childless career woman who'd devoted herself to helping Louis oversee the vast Vanderley empire. And Annabelle, the sister who'd died in the forties with infantile paralysis at the age of three. That Annabelle, as well as the present Annabelle Vanderley , had been named in honor of a great-great-grandmother who'd come from France as the bride of Edward Vanderley in 1855.
"Rest, dearest." Annabelle adored her uncle Louis, who'd been a second father to her since her own father had died of a heart attack seven years ago. "I'll find out what happened to Lulu. I promise."
Dr. Martin stopped her on her way out of the room. "Annabelle?"
"Yes?"
"He's seventy-eight, in poor health and has received a terrible shock," Dr. Martin said.
"Are you trying to tell us that he might die?" Wythe asked.
"Hush." Annabelle glanced at her uncle, who seemed to be asleep, then glowered at Wythe. "He might hear you."
"He's out cold" Wythe told her.
"All I'm saying is to prepare yourselves," Dr. Martin said. "Louis could well survive this, but. . . Well, it will depend on his will to live, at least in part. I've seen it happen before, patients who give up the will to live and die in a few weeks or a few months."
"I'll give him something to live for," Annabelle said. "Once he accepts that Lulu is dead he'll want to see her killer punished. That alone will keep him going."
Dr. Martin shook his head. "Revenge can be a strong mo tivator. Just be careful that it doesn't turn on him. And on you."
"I wasn't referring to revenge. What I want—what Uncle Louis will want—is justice."
Quinn lay in the bed, the back of his head resting in his cupped hands, his fingers entwined. A cup of tea, a couple more aspirins and a sympathetic ear had partially eased his headache but hadn't helped him fall asleep. In a few short hours, he would have to return to police headquarters and answer more questions. Be grilled about Lulu's death.
God, how he wanted to turn back the clock and-—and do what? Decline Lulu's offer to come to Memphis? Arrive at Lulu's house in time to stop her killer?
He flopped over and glanced at the digital bedside clock. Four forty-three.
Lulu had loved life about as much as anybody he'd ever known. There wasn't anything she wouldn't try, at least once. At twenty-seven, she'd had her
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