Murder's Last Resort Read Online Free PDF

thought through big problems together. Often, his was the voice of measured logic, whereas my thoughts and feelings collided with one another.
    My "aha" moments arrived by special delivery. There was an intuitive alchemy in my brain that threw facts and possibilities together into the hopper. Over time, they came out as a cohesive whole. That didn’t mean I wanted to do all the thinking alone. I liked to bounce my abstracts against French’s more traditional canvas for a new combo of shapes, colors and forms.
    My tea sat next to me, getting cold, as I fiddled with my hair and makeup at the dressing table. First things first. Alana Torrey was due back from Atlanta, where her mom had been in surgery.
    Good old Tom from the PD had just called me. He was becoming my new best friend. Pretty amazing, considering he didn’t like high teas, line dancing or chick flicks. Or even me, really. Outside of one little murder, we had nothing in common.
    He told me something that seemed impossible. “Uh, ya know, Mrs. French, Alana doesn’t even know she’s a widow yet.”
    “How could that be?” I couldn't believe it.
    “We couldn’t find a number for her mom or dad. We don’t know what hospital the mom is in.”
    “That’s ridiculous,” I said, as undiplomatic as ever.
    “It may be,” he said, sounding defensive, “but that’s the truth. We know her return flight number because your in-house limo was supposed to pick her up from the airport this afternoon.”
    “I see.” I made an effort to be pleasant. “Is there something I can do to help?” I added, as sweet as Florida orange juice.
    “As a matter of fact, yes. We’re meetin’ her at her gate at the airport and givin’ her the bad news. Would you come with us? It might be useful, havin’ a female there when we tell her.”
    I got his meaning. He and Rick weren’t up to having an hysterical woman on their hands alone. “Sure, Tom,” I replied. “I’ll be happy to come along.”
    Alana and I were not close but we had known one another a long time. I guess you could call us corporate acquaintances. She would most likely go into shock, Tom told me.
    Unless she’s the murderer.
    “Really? How could she be the murderer, when she left for Atlanta during the cocktail reception?” A voice piped up in my head.
    Then another voice argued, “But she could have arranged the murder, couldn’t she? She didn’t have to be there personally to make it happen. She just needed an accomplice. What would motivate an accomplice?”
    There were so many possibilities—the promise of position, the promise of power, the promise of prestige, the promise of Alana. My mind darted from Alana and the promises to what would likely happen next.
    Alana would probably break down only a little, if at all, at the airport, being the disciplined lady that she was. She would ask to be excused from the evening’s festivities. We would have to make a plausible excuse for her. That would be odd. Now there would be three key people missing from the formal affair. Would the other guests buy our stories? Probably. We could easily say Alana had decided to stay on with her mother for another day.
    My mind skipped back to French. Why did he have that pesky receipt and the pantyhose box on his desk? Could French have thrown a rod somewhere in that sleek Maserati brain of his? As soon as he got out of jail, would he turn on me like a rabid squirrel? Would he kill me, too? Who really knows another person?
     
    * * *
    Rick and Tom need not have worried about Alana making a scene or being hard to comfort. She almost walked past us as she deplaned but I called out to her. She looked surprised to see me and smiled at first. Then, alarm registered on her face. Rick delivered the bad news and she froze for a brief moment, then reached for his right forearm in the most delicate and proper manner. Looking down at his badge and then into his face with her china blue eyes, she blinked hard a few times and in