Pushing Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

wedding.” Within a year the robust Lewis died of hepatitis, and the delicate Janet survived to perform endless good works and support innumerable good causes. For a few years she’d been a member of my bridge club along with Sal. But Janet’s life became more and more devoted to her charities, and we saw less and less of her.
    I’d last seen Janet about a year ago at a banquet in her honor given by St. Francis Seminary in Fairfield, marking the thirtieth anniversary of the Lewis Folsom scholarship fund. She had looked stunning in an azure blue silk gown created for her by some giant of the designing world, and Sal, sitting beside me, had remarked glumly that Janet’s figure was as good as ever. Her ash-blond hair, expertly maintained ash-blond, brushed the great diamonds in her ears, her fingers glittered with the same, and around her neck was a little square of brown burlap on a string. It was, a priest at our table told us, the scapular of the Order of St. Benedict, which she never removed.
    Who on earth would want to frighten or upset Janet Folsom?
    I heard the elevator door open, then voices—Janet’s and Dan’s—and Sadd appeared at my door looking over his shoulder. Janet’s voice grew agitated.
    â€œWhat’s up?” I said.
    Sadd gave a puzzled shrug and stood looking toward them. The usual traffic of nurses and berobed patients passed, some looking curiously back toward what was now the sobbing sound of Janet’s voice.
    This was intolerable. “Dammit, Sadd, tell Dan to let her in!”
    But Janet let herself in. She streaked past Sadd weeping and gasping, “My fault! All my fault! I did it, Clara, I nearly got you killed!” And now I was in her throttling embrace, damp from the snow still clinging to her coat. “And look—I’ve soaked you! Nice work, Janet—give her pneumonia, too!” She dropped the coat, a lovely cashmere one, to the floor. “Oh, Clara, what have I done? Are you still horribly sick? And let me see your poor ankle!”
    She was tugging at my covers. I slapped her hand, then kissed it.
    â€œLet me alone, idiot, and sit down. I don’t know what you’ve done, but we’re all very interested in finding out.”
    Dan had closed the door quickly, and now he and Sadd stood at the foot of the bed in that confused state of embarrassment and distress that men exhibit when women make scenes. Janet sank into the chair Dan had pushed to the bed, her face in her hands.
    The door opened, and Dr. Cullen walked in with Sister Agnes. I felt a wild desire to laugh. Were introductions in order? How about, “Dr. Cullen, Sister, this is a dear friend who says she’s responsible for the attacks on my life”? The nice doctor saved me by merely saying, “You have visitors—we won’t stay. How do you feel?”
    â€œMuch better.”
    She left, nodding with a smile to the visitors she’d met, and politely ignoring the bowed figure of the one she had not. Sister did the same but could not resist a compassionate glance at poor Janet.
    As the door shut Dan said, “Mrs. Folsom, please tell us what this is all about.”
    Janet wiped her eyes, straightened in the chair, and said, “The whole ghastly business began—”
    She broke off, eyes wide, staring at the scattered Christmas cards on my bed.
    â€œMy God—is that your mail?” She stood up, pawing through it. “Is there more?” She upended the tote, and its contents went flying. We watched her, transfixed. “Not here. Not here yet. Or else he’s got it. When did all this come?”
    Sadd said, “I picked it up from Clara’s box this morning.”
    â€œThen it’s a wonder you’re still alive.” She stared at him. “Or is this yesterday’s mail?”
    â€œIt’s everything since Sunday. Today’s hasn’t been delivered yet.” Sadd sounded amazingly sane,