Murder by the Book Read Online Free PDF Page A

“To discourage barracuda,” Jerry had said the day before, and had discouraged Pam, so that they dunked in the fresh-water pool. But Mr. Grogan, after dinner, had laughed at that—laughed, Jerry thought, a little excessively.
    They floated in salt water, now and then swishing mildly. Small fish, conceivably infant barracuda, swam with them. Very tiny fish swam in a formation of hundreds. Pam splashed a hand and the fish, formation still impeccable, turned aside. “They must drill and drill,” Pam said. “Like cadets.” They could look under the pier, set on piles above the water. Thin edges of light worked between planks, made bright, straight ribbons on the water. Above them, on the pier, people walked back and forth. Beyond the netting, gulls sat on water, bobbing gently, making an occasional strident remark.
    The Norths went back to their room, and showered again—“Do they have to use this much chlorine?” “The Navy is our first line of defense”—and mildly debated more tennis, but were interrupted by sleep. They went to the Penguin Bar and had a drink. They went to a place, built out over water, called the A. & B. Lobster House, and, not sharing native belief that Florida “lobsters” are edible, had pompano. They went back to the hotel and, briefly, danced in the patio.
    â€œA day of accomplishment,” Jerry said, as they walked down the second-floor corridor to their room. “A night’s repose well earned.”
    â€œThey’ve turned down the beds,” Pam said. “I think we ought to live this way all the time.”

3
    It was not, this time, the sound of his own voice that wakened Gerald North. It was his own name. It was “Jerry!” Jerry!” Hands were on his shoulders, shaking him awake. “Wake up,” Pam was saying. “Please— please —wake up! Jerry.”
    Jerry was awake. Wakening was a plunge from warmth into icy water.
    Pam was leaning over him, her hands on his shoulders.
    Her face, so near his, was wrenched. Color had gone out of her face. “Wake up,” she said once more and then he swung up, carrying her with him, and she held to him. She was trembling; her body shook.
    â€œOn the pier,” Pam said. “He’s—shot. I don’t know. Stabbed. There’s—” He could feel her body steady, could feel a deep breath going into her lungs. “There’s blood all over,” she said. But her voice still shook. “Dr. Piersal. He’s been killed. Somebody’s killed him and—”
    Again her body began to shake in his arms. He tightened his arms.
    â€œI’ll be all right,” Pam said. “We’ve got—”
    Jerry released her. In seconds he was in shorts, in canvas shoes.
    This morning—this still early morning—there was nobody in the lobby, no drone of vacuum. This morning the whole hotel seemed to sleep. “Sunday,” Jerry thought, his mind flicking the word. This morning no man watered the lawns of The Coral Isles. As they ran toward the pier, they ran through a sleeping world. The gulls screamed harshly above them. A pelican sat on a pile, far out, and stared at them.
    Edmund Piersal lay face down on the platform at the end of the pier. He wore walking shorts and a tennis shirt which had been white, and a gray sweater. Blood spread out from his body, but most of it had dripped between the planks, gone drop by drop into the water below.
    He was, Jerry realized, done with bleeding. He was dead, now.
    He lay on the wound which had killed him—the wound of knife or bullet, the wound through which his blood had flowed over boards, into water. He had not been dead long, Jerry guessed, but knew the roughness of a layman’s guess.
    He crouched beside Piersal’s body. He stood up. “I’ll go—” he began, and looked at Pam. She was standing very still; she was looking away, looking at the