Murder Is Uncooperative Read Online Free PDF Page B

eh?” he yelled. “I don't know why you people can't learn to mind your own business.”
    He swung the toolkit he was carrying in a large arc, barely missing us. I jumped back, but Mariana didn't flinch. She answered him more calmly than I would have thought possible. “Now, Aaron, you should know why people are upset about it, but you can talk to Les or the board members, if you really don't understand.”
    â€œYeah, like that's gonna happen,” he snarled. But he did keep moving, storming past us and into the building.
    â€œWho was that?” I asked, my voice trembling a little.
    â€œOh, Aaron. He lives in the co-op. And he owns the motorhome, as you can probably tell.”
    "I thought he was going to hit you.”
    â€œOh, he mostly just yells,” she said, calmly. “He can make a lot of noise, but I've never seen him actually hit anyone. And he'll usually back down if anyone stands up to him. Notice he didn't come out while your husband was still around.”
    She laughed, but when she turned to look at the motorhome parked on the street, her face turned white.
    â€œAre you all right?” I asked. “That was upsetting. And it's getting hot out. Maybe it's time to go inside.”
    â€œNo, I'm fine. I just thought . . . But it's been . . .” She had been staring intently at the street, but she looked back at me and managed a faint smile. “Yes, you're right. Let's just take these bags around back. I think it's time to go in.”

CHAPTER
Five
    On Monday, Dad was feeling well enough for a short walk and decided to check out one of the coffee shops on Commercial Drive. The street had been the center of Vancouver's Italian community and had been known as “Little Italy” for many years. Now it had a more eclectic ethnic mix, but it still boasted many Italian restaurants, delis, and coffee bars.
    After Dad had headed off with his walker, I used his car to drop Ben off at the pre-school he attended three times a week. I decided to do some grocery shopping before going home. I'd avoided buying too many things before the move, so we wouldn't have so much to pack. Now we were running a bit low on essentials. It was time to stock our new cupboards.
    With the car loaded with supplies, I thought I'd use the underground parking garage Les had mentioned. I hadn't bothered with it during the weekend but now I grabbed the remote door opener Les had given me. The door moved as smoothly and evenly as everything else in this well-run building. Les had assured me that the parking spot we'd been allocated was close to the elevator. I appreciated that. It would be easier for Dad. And, as the mother of a young son, I was often carrying a sleepy boy, bulky toys, or bags of groceries.
    I was driving slowly, carefully looking at the numbered parking spots, when I suddenly realized I was heading directly toward the bumper of the rusty motor home I'd seen earlier on the street. It was filling a parking space, jutting out further than anyof the other vehicles in the parking garage. In fact, I was lucky there hadn't been another vehicle coming out because it would have been hard for two cars to pass in the space that was left.
    The RV also spread out into the two spaces on either side, which were both vacant, either by design or because nothing larger than a bike could have squeezed in beside the motor home. I was driving past, still checking the numbers on the parking spots, when it dawned on me that one of the spots the motor home was occupying must be the one Les had assigned to me.
    I climbed out of the car, peering under the bumper of the motor home to check the number painted on the floor of the garage. Sure enough, that was the one Les had written down for me. I checked the spot again. There was no way I could squeeze even our small Toyota into the space left by the motor home. The spot I had been given was right next to the elevator, which was great. But that meant that it had