Pink Balloons and Other Deadly Things (Mystery Series - Book One) Read Online Free PDF Page A

They came flying up the stairs and burst into my room. They'd seen it on a newsbreak while they were watching Avatar .
    “Did you know, Mom?” Allie regarded me anxiously.
    “Yes, honey, I talked to the police.”
    “Where’s Dad? Was he home?” Matt asked. “Is he okay?”
    “He wasn’t home when it happened. He got home later.”
    “Then he found her—-like that!” Allie's face went two shades whiter and I pulled her to me.
    “Was it a burglar?” Matt asked, jumping up and down. “What’d the police say?”
    “The police aren’t even sure it wasn’t an accident,” I said, determined to lessen the impact. “She may have tripped and hit her head when she fell.” I avoided mentioning the necklace, which would have unleashed a stream of questions I didn’t want to answer.
    “Daddy must be--” Allie started, then stopped, not sure of my reaction.
    Horty, our elephant-dog, hungry for his dinner, was nuzzling my legs, and I used him as an excuse to change the subject.
    “Horty's hungry,” I said, thrusting my feet into my slippers. “You feed him, Matt. Allie’ll feed the cats while I get dinner going. Listen, the police are very efficient.” Recalling Brodsky, I was pretty certain of that anyway. “They’ve got everything under control. I'm sure it won’t take them long to catch whoever did this.”
    “What if they don’t?” Allie wanted to know. “What if it's a serial killer or somebody like that?”
    “Yeah,” said Matt, “what if he hated his mother and goes around killing women? And girls,” he added, leering at his sister.
    “It isn’t,” I said.
    “How do you know?”
    “I just do. Now let’s go barbecue some chicken!” And I marched downstairs to the kitchen, followed, like the Pied Piper, by Allie, Matt, Horty, Luciano, Placido, and the smallest of our Siamese trio, José.
    DINNER WAS UNUSUALLY quiet. We didn’t barbecue out.
    I broiled the chicken and made frozen peas and instant mashed potatoes.
    I caught Allie watching me make little molehills out of the mountain of potatoes on my plate.
    “What?” I asked.
    “Shouldn’t we call dad?” she whispered.
    “ Oh, sure,” I wanted to snap. “We wouldn’t want him to be lonely.”
    But of course I didn’t. Instead I replied, “Better to call him tomorrow, sweetheart. The police are probably still there.”
    Matt’s face went uncharacteristically serious. “Was Erica all mushed up when they found her, Mom?”
    Allie pushed her chair back and ran from the table. I wanted to do the same, but I kept my voice steady.
    “I don’t think so, Mattie. The water cushioned her fall.” I didn't think it was necessary to tell him what drowning victims looked like.
    “Who do the cops think did it?”
    “Your mother”, I would’ve said if I were a purist about the truth.
    A lump of mashed potatoes or pure terror choked off my reply. Thank God, the phone rang. Allie grabbed it in the living room.
    “Mom,” she called. “It’s Mr. Carboni.”
    I raced to the living room, determined to keep the conversation short. Calculated at a quarter of his hourly fee, no call from A. Carboni, Esq., ever cost less than seventy-five dollars. “Arthur?”
    “Carrie, you okay?”
    I cleared my throat. “I’m having kind of a crisis.”
    “I know. I heard.” He proceeded to tell me he’d seen it on ABC and had called to warn me.
    “You may start getting calls from the press.”
    “Oh, God, I never thought about that.”
    “Just say you don't know any more than they do and you have no comment.”
    I wanted to tell him about Brodsky and ask his advice, but I didn't want Matt and Allie to hear. “I may need to meet with you.”
    “I’m going to be away for a couple of weeks. I assume this’ll put the divorce action on hold for a while.”
    “I guess so.”
    “Remember. Don’t talk to the media. It could hurt your case.”
    “That’s what I want to see you about.”
    “I’ll call you when I get back. If you need anything