Let Sleeping Dogs Lie Read Online Free PDF Page A

Penney's window remark to a hospice volunteer. She should have known that for his widow, setting up a bed of any kind in the living room was a death knell. A small, terrifying step away from the hospital type brought in for Earl Wexler's final months.
     
     
That time would inevitably come again. A year from now, two, five—the doctors were continually astonished by Harriet's resiliency. When they remarked on it, she always said, "The secret to livin's being too mean to die. God don't want you and the devil's scared of what you'll do if he gets ya."
     
     
Dina laid the gun on the dining room table, then faced her mother. "I understand about the bed. I don't have the money to put cable in your room. Dr. Greenspan wanted you on oxygen weeks ago, but you had to get sicker before Medicare would pay for it. Telling me you won't do this and I can't do that isn't getting the machine in here, where you can use it."
     
     
She turned to Bob and Bob. "Which these very patient, very kind men will put wherever they think best." She smiled at them, adding, "I'm not passing the buck." A shrug, then, "Okay, I am, but now that I've royally screwed up and pissed off Bonnie Parker in the process, you're in charge."
     
     
Harriet grunted. "They should've been in the first place."
     
     
"I know." Dina cupped her elbow to guide her back to the throne. "I ought to be horsewhipped for trying too hard to make you happy."
     
     
"You're nothing but a bully, Dina Jeanne."
     
     
"Uh-huh."
     
     
"And you're gonna be sorry when I'm gone. I'm changing my will. Randy gets everything. Lock, stock and barrel."
     
     
Dina steadied her for the awkward, off-balance descent into the chair. Her mother's shallow, raspy breathing scared her. A glance over her shoulder at Taller Bob telegraphed, "Hurry. Please."
     
     
     
    3
J ack McPhee eyed the redhead striding into Ruby Tuesday's dining area. So did every man at the bar and seated at tables. Their female companions' heads turned, following their gazes, curious why conversations halted in midsentence or lunch dates suddenly forgot how to chew. To a woman, the object of such dumbstruck attention fostered death-ray glares.
     
     
Belle deHaven always had that effect on people. A teal silk, hourglass-tailored sheath contributed to it. So did an impeccable pair of mile-long legs, a flawless complexion and green sloe eyes. But it was the inner, indescribable something she projected that deeded the room to her.
     
     
Jack stood and pulled out the adjacent chair. "You're late, as usual." Belle kissed his cheek, then scrubbed off the evidence with her thumb. "After all these years, you'd be crushed if I was on time."
     
     
"The shock might be fatal."
     
     
Laughing, she sank into the chair and laid her clutch purse on the table. "Careful, McPhee. I know CPR, and it might be fun getting you in a lip lock again." Belle hoisted the cosmopolitan he'd ordered for her and took a sip. "You were a lousy husband, but a world-class kisser."
     
     
"Oh, yeah?" Jack cocked an eyebrow. "Sounds like my replacement could use a couple of pointers."
     
     
"Dream on, hon. Carleton is everything I ever wanted. Smart, handsome, respectable—"
     
     
"Rich."
     
     
Belle shrugged. "That, too, but money really doesn't buy happiness."
     
     
You're just now figuring that out? Jack thought.
     
     
She drank again and sighed. "Poverty wasn't as romantic as it's cracked up to be, either."
     
     
"It's not like we starved. It just took me a while to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up."
     
     
"As if…" Four tapered, manicured fingers grazed his jacket sleeve. A squinted visual inspection elicited a gasp. "Armani? Good God, Jack. Are you robbing banks on the side?"
     
     
Hard as he tried, he couldn't tamp the blush creeping up his neck. A former girlfriend who managed an upscale resale shop introduced him to the concept of gently used clothing. Fleeting thoughts of recycling dead men's wardrobes gave him