Murder Melts in Your Mouth Read Online Free PDF Page A

an ambulance with lights flashing. Some people stood up from their tables to peer out the windows.
    â€œWhat in the world is going on?” Crewe asked, his reporter instincts on alert.
    But Chad’s story intrigued me more. Of course, I had known Hoyt Cavendish since my childhood. He’d been a longtime partner in the Paine financial empire, a friend of my father, an active member of my social circle.
    And just a few months back, I had been in one of the concert halls at the Kimmel Center the night Hoyt had stepped onto the stage carrying a Stradivarius violin. It was a gift he had purchased at great expense for a deserving musician. Hoyt wore a fine tuxedo for the occasion, and his white hair, cut short but brushed up from his face with pomade, gleamed as he stood in the glowing spotlight as the audience rose to applaud. He had bowed his head in a show of humility. A diminutive man made large by the stage lighting and his own act of philanthropy.
    The violinist had come onstage in her concert black gown and stood at his elbow until the applause died away. But Hoyt had withheld the violin for an instant—long enough for the whole audience to inhale a deep breath. The violinist began to weep silently, and then Hoyt had slowly extended the instrument to her. The glowing light gleamed on the violin and on the tears on her cheeks. When her hands closed on the Stradivarius, and Hoyt released it at last, the audience went wild. I had never seen a charitable act so dramatic.
    â€œCrewe,” I said, “were you at the Kimmel Center the night Hoyt Cavendish gave the violin?”
    Crewe turned to me, the street noise forgotten. “Why, yes. I sat just a few rows behind you, remember?”
    â€œYes, that’s right. This is an odd thing to remember, but did you get the feeling—I don’t know—that Hoyt was—oh, never mind. It’s ungenerous of me.”
    â€œI know what you’re thinking,” Crewe said. “And I got the same impression. That Cavendish was onstage for his own gratification.”
    â€œI can’t believe he’s in any kind of trouble at the firm,” I said. “But…”
    â€œJudging by all the ticked-off people I saw this afternoon,” Chad said, “he’ll be lucky if he walks out of that office alive.”
    After the concert, I had met Hoyt Cavendish in the receiving line at the reception.
    â€œMr. Cavendish,” I’d said, shaking his thin, almost feminine hand, “your gift will mean so much to the community as well as Miss Ling.”
    His fine-boned face was pink with pleasure. His voice had an odd, reedy timbre. “I hope my charitable giving will encourage others to be just as generous.”
    I had not introduced myself, but the next person in line said, “Nora Blackbird, how nice to see you!”
    And Hoyt’s expression froze. He remained gracious, but turned away from me quickly. We hadn’t spoken since I was a child, so he hadn’t recognized me. But he certainly knew my name.
    Crewe was frowning out the window again. “I wonder what’s going on.”
    My own instincts finally kicked in. I said, “Crewe, we should go up to see Lexie.”
    â€œNow?”
    â€œYes, now.”
    Crewe’s gaze met mine, and his eyes widened. Without saying good-bye to Chad, we bolted.
    The wails of police cruisers echoed against the tall buildings around us. We hurried up Market Street to Lexie’s office. As we drew closer, I felt a weight of dread start to build in my chest. In front of the Paine Building, two cars had pulled up on the sidewalk, blocking pedestrians. Several officers milled around, shouting at one another.
    â€œOh, no,” I whispered.
    Beside the hood of the first car, a stern-faced cop unrolled some yellow crime tape.
    Crewe asked him, “What’s going on?”
    â€œOh my God,” I said.
    The only thing that kept me from falling to my knees was