Murder by Candlelight Read Online Free PDF

recognizing Bud because Z had recently been in Bud's Tavern
on Oak. Z wasn't much of a drinker, but had been feeling down that
day.
    Back in high school, Bud had been the
senior right tackle when Z was a junior. Since then -- like so many
here -- Bud's impressive muscles had sunk to the bottom of a tub of
lard.
    Like other big men Z had known, Bud
was quiet, almost shy, as if apologetic for taking up so much of
the world's space.
    "Hey Bud," Ted said, Ted also getting
a drink at Bud's from time to time.
    "Teddy."
    "Join us, boy. The more the merrier."
With a wife like Ted's, "the more the merrier" made a lot of
sense.
    "Can't."
    "Can't? Where you goin' in such a
rush? The party's just started."
    "Got to get back to the
business."
    Bud was dressed as Z had seen him at
the tavern: black slacks, white shirt, black "bolo" tie with a
turquoise and Indian-silver clip.
    "What about your counter man?" Ted
shrugged, at the same time managing to stab a slice of barbecued
beef into his mouth, a dribble of sauce dripping down to be forever
lost in the jungle of Ted's shirt.
    "Sick," Bud said. "Got to clean up
before I open."
    "Yeah. Tough. See you at the dinner
tonight?"
    "Maybe," Bud said
uncertainly.
    After that, Bud just stood behind Z,
swaying, shifting his massive weight from one foot to the other.
"Actually," Bud began again, looking pained, "I need ta talk ta
Z."
    Seeing that the big man was serious, Z
nodded; scooted painfully to the end of the bench seat; swung his
legs out; stood up.
    Good old Bud to the rescue, was what
he was thinking!
    Z taking the lead, they headed for the
nearest way out of the steel and wooden "tent," soon on the mostly
bare ground beyond.
    Sprung from the trap of auld lang
syne, Z took a calming breath. Smelled: flat beer, rotted banana
skins, stale cheese puffs, cigarette smoke, urine of dogs and kids,
hamburger, sunburned skin, dust, bruised grass, baked beans, old
catsup, plastic plates, strawberry pop ....... After losing his
sense of smell for a time as a teenager, Z like to smell ...
everything.
    Away from the crowded pavilion, they
lost themselves in the park's other "doings": teenagers throwing
frisbees, dads rattling charcoal into braziers, bare-topped little
kids running, falling down, wrestling, throwing dirt.
    Finally within the sheltering privacy
of complete strangers, the two of them sat on a blue, fiberglass
bench.
    "First, a question," Z
said, picking up on something "detective" Ted should have noticed,
but didn't -- no surprise there. "You're a year ahead of me. So,
how come you're at this reunion?"
    Bud nodded soberly. "Heard talk of it
at the bar. I came, hoping to find you here."
    "So?"
    "I got a problem, Z." Bud's voice as
soft as the rest of him.
    "Yeah?"
    "Want to hire you."
    Z nodded.
    "I don't know how much you charge, or
when I can pay. Things are a little short right now. You know how
it is."
    Looking over, Z noticed that Bud had
his big fists clenched into boxing gloves.
    Z nodded again.
    "The problem is," Bud continued, going
slow, "I got a maniac on my trail."
    "Maniac?"
    "Yeah."
    From his back pocket, the gentle giant
extracted what looked like a playing card, handing the card to
Z.
    Z took it. Looked at it.
    Bicycle style.
    Worn.
    Turning the card over, Z saw it was
the queen of spades.
    Z handed the card back, Bud returning
it to his hip pocket.
    "I know it don't look like much," Bud
said, begging Z's pardon with a sickly grin, "but that's the death
card."
    Ah! Hocus-pocus. Explaining why Bud
Izard sought Z's advice.
    Z could do nothing but regret the day
he'd taken on the "ghost light" case at Bateman college in the
nearby town of Liberty. Since then, all he seemed to get was
"paranormal" work, receiving calls from respectable people and
cranks alike. You got a reputation and ....
    The occult was Jamie Stewart's line --
Jamie, the girl "ghost hunter" Z was paired up with on his last
major case.
    Every time Z thought of frolicsome
Jamie Stewart, he felt like blushing;