Murder Under the Tree Read Online Free PDF

o'clock when I served dessert. Afterwards, Phil, Mike, and Dinesh went downstairs and started playing some jazz standards while John and the four of us sat in the living room and visited. I thought again about how much Phil seemed to enjoy the murder mystery game.
     

 
Chapter Three
     
    Tuesday, December 23
     
    While Phil slept in, I sat at the kitchen table quietly eating poached eggs and toast, while reading the newspaper to see if there was anything about Les Hollings in it. Just when I spotted his name, the phone rang. I tilted my chair backwards and reached behind me, picking up the phone on the second ring.
    “Kay, have you listened to the news this morning yet?”
    The voice had a creakiness to it. “Sarah?”
    I looked down at my empty coffee cup. Holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder, I walked over to pour myself a second cup of coffee, adding a little milk and sugar, then returned to the table.
    “Yes, it's me. About Les...the autopsy report. He died of an anaphylactic reaction. Traces of peanuts were in his stomach contents.”
    I sat down at the table. “So it was his peanut allergy. How sad.” Les' death could have been prevented. At the tea, Les called out Al. I thought he was calling to some person. Was he trying to say allergy?
    “Kay, we need your help.”
    “With what?”
    “Les' murder.”
    I took a sip of the coffee before I answered. It burned the tip of my tongue. “But it sounds like an accident.”
    “We don't think so.”
    I added more milk to my coffee and stirred it. “We?” I raised my eyebrows in surprise and took another sip. “Who's we? And why do you think anyone would kill him? I thought you said everyone loved Les.”
    “Almost everyone. Kay, I don't think we should be discussing this on the phone. Can you come to the Hill this morning? I've been telling a couple of my friends here about you.”
    I glanced at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink from last night's party. And I told Phil I wouldn't get involved. “I still need to take a shower. I can be there in an hour. Should I call Deirdre?”
    “Not necessary. Thanks, Kay.”
    I'd have to be back home by noon to clean up this mess before I made another, baking Christmas cookies. I added my empty coffee cup and plate to the pile.
    * * * *
    On the way to the retirement home, I stopped at Marissa's and picked up a Galette des Rois, a delicious, flaky pastry with a delicate buttery crust filled with almond cream paste to bring over to Sarah. The clock chimed ten o'clock when I arrived at Hawthorne Hills. I glanced at the tree in the lobby where I first saw Les the day of the Christmas tea, then walked over to look at the directory. Sarah Moeller: Room 310.
    I ascended to the top floor and knocked on the door. Sarah opened it. I entered her apartment, surprised to see Anne Niven, the mystery writer, sitting on her cameo back sofa that had faced an art deco fireplace in her previous home. Also in her apartment sat Martin, the gentleman who had escorted me at the tea, on her tapestry-covered occasional chair that I had also admired. A large window across most of the back wall, let in a bright pillar of sunlight. She re-introduced me to Martin and Anne. I handed Sarah the Christmas pastry which she took into the kitchen.
    “Nice to see you both again,” I said. Martin stood up. We shook hands. Both had firm grips.
    I sat down in a chair next to Anne.
    Martin, gently pulled at his trousers above his knees so as to not stretch them out, before he sat down.
    “We heard you are good at detecting,” Anne said.
    “I heard you were a mystery writer.” I looked towards the kitchen. What had Sarah been telling them?
    “Anne has several mysteries published,” Sarah said, walking back into the living room with plates of the Christmas pastry on a tray. She handed a plate to each of us. A pot of coffee already sat on the table with cups and saucers. She sat opposite me, next to Martin, and started to pour. “Kay, I'm going to