Murder Melts in Your Mouth Read Online Free PDF

Crewe’s arm as he wrapped it around me.
    A small man lay crumpled on the sidewalk in front of the Paine Building. His gray suit obscured the tortured position of his body, but it was clear he was dead. A pool of blood widened around his head. One black shoe lay at the curb.
    Crewe looked up at the Paine Building above us. “Dear heaven,” he said. “I think he jumped!”
    With the afternoon sun ablaze overhead, I could barely make out the penthouse balcony. A gauzy curtain blew outward from the open window.
    I heard Crewe’s voice, but the whole world tilted around me.
    I knew the figure on the sidewalk. Hoyt Cavendish.
    A police officer stood over the body. To the crowd of people gathering, he said, “Move along. This isn’t a freak show.”
    If a partner in her firm had just committed suicide, Lexie might need us. Crewe whisked me past the police. We left the awful scene on the sidewalk, ran across the small terrace and into the building.
    We made it through the security checkpoint in the lobby only because one of the guards recognized me. Although he was yelling into a phone and trying to communicate by hand signals with a belligerent police officer at the same time, he saw my stricken face and waved me past. Then I heard him say, “This building is locked down! Nobody gets in or out from now on, understand?”
    An instant later, the elevator arrived in the lobby. The door opened, and a gaggle of elderly ladies rushed out. Some were weeping. One was irate.
    â€œHow dare you chase us out of there? We might have been helpful! I was a triage nurse once!”
    A police officer gripped her elbow. “Fifty years ago, maybe,” he snapped. “Move it, ladies. Over to the desk so I can take your names and addresses.”
    Crewe flattened me against the wall as the police officer brushed past us. Then he pulled me into the elevator and punched a button.
    But on Lexie’s floor, another police officer planted his hand on Crewe’s chest as soon as the door opened. “Sorry, buddy. Come back tomorrow.”
    â€œWhat’s going on?”
    â€œYou hear what I said? Beat it, bub.”
    â€œSure, sure. Sorry.”
    Crewe pressed the button, and the door began to close.
    I said, “Crewe—”
    â€œDon’t worry. I’m not giving up.”
    He hit the panel of buttons again, and the elevator dropped only one floor before it stopped again. We stepped off and quickly found the emergency staircase.
    Crewe turned to me. “You okay, Nora?”
    â€œYes, let’s hurry. I want to be sure Lexie’s all right.”
    We started up the echoing stairwell together, Crewe leading the way.
    Coming toward us down the stairs, though, came Tierney Cavendish.
    He was in a rush, white-faced and silent. He clattered on the steps, one hand gripping the handrail to keep him from plunging headlong down the stairs. He didn’t say a word. I’m not sure he even saw us.
    Crewe and I stood aside to let him pass.
    â€œOh, Crewe,” I said, thinking of the scene on the sidewalk. “He shouldn’t see his father like that!”
    â€œEven the two of us couldn’t stop him,” Crewe replied, just as hushed. He grabbed my arm, and we raced upward.
    On the top floor, the heavy stairwell door was locked from the inside. Crewe pounded on it. When the door opened, we slipped into a rear hallway.
    The woman who had let us through the emergency door was Brandi Schmidt, the last person on earth I expected to meet at that moment. A local television personality, she was pretty at thirty-something, although thick makeup and false eyelashes created a kind of mask of vacancy on her face.
    For an instant, I thought she’d been sent to cover the story of Hoyt’s death for her news station.
    But in the next second, I knew it was impossible for any news to travel so fast.
    She backed her wheelchair up the hallway to allow Crewe and me to enter.