Stabbing Stephanie Read Online Free PDF

Simultaneously, her attention was drawn to a pair of legs—human legs—sticking straight up from the freezer case, their owner apparently digging deep enough to have virtually fallen in. These legs were disturbingly familiar. They were skinny, knobby-kneed, in lime-green polyester pedal pushers (originating from the first time the style had been popular), and navy-blue Keds sneakers.
    All thoughts of chicken breasts were immediately jettisoned. Jane gripped the handle of her shopping cart, did a swift U-turn, and made for the soda aisle.
    â€œJane? Jane!”
    She froze. Could she get away with making believe she hadn’t heard? No, she knew she couldn’t. Forcing a polite smile, she turned.
    Puffy Chapin was making her way rapidly toward Jane, an immense frozen turkey under each arm.
    â€œHello, Puffy.”
    Puffy Chapin, whose real name was Patricia, was the matriarch of one of Shady Hills’s oldest families. In her early seventies, she was small and wiry— stringy was always the word that came to Jane’s mind—with wispy yellowish gray hair that had never in its life experienced a good haircut (“People like Puffy don’t concern themselves with flashy things like stylish haircuts,” Stanley had once told Jane), and leathery skin that Jane doubted had ever experienced sunscreen or more makeup than the occasional application of lipstick.
    â€œHow are you, Jane dear?” Puffy said, and they exchanged cheek kisses. Jane didn’t really dislike Puffy. It was difficult not to find her endearing—it was just that she had so many vehement opinions on so many subjects that it was impossible to have a brief conversation with her.
    â€œI’m well, thank you, Puffy. How have you been?”
    Puffy opened her mouth to answer, then seemed to become suddenly aware of the turkeys under her arms. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she sputtered. “Where is my head?” She bustled back to her cart and threw in the birds. Then she hurried back to Jane, wiping her hands on her pedal pushers.
    â€œWe’re all marvelous, thank you,” Puffy said in her characteristic Locust Valley lockjaw. Her face grew troubled. “But let me ask you, Jane, and please do be frank with me. What, I mean what, do you think of the things that are happening in our town?”
    Jane started to respond, then realized she had no idea what Puffy was referring to. “Things?”
    â€œYes! It’s shameful. On our beautiful village green . . . a—a bum!”
    â€œAh,” Jane said. “Ivor.”
    â€œYou what?” Puffy looked confused.
    â€œIvor. That’s the man’s name.”
    â€œYou know him?” Puffy’s eyes bugged out.
    â€œNo, I don’t know him, but my friend Ginny does. She’s spoken to him, in fact. Come to think of it, so did I, this morning when he asked me for money.”
    â€œOh!” Puffy exclaimed, scandalized. “He approached you? Filthy beast. And what did you do?”
    â€œI gave him some money, ” Jane replied simply.
    Puffy gasped. “Jane, how could you! That’s the worst thing you could have done. I’ve been after Reg Lewell,” she said, referring to the mayor of Shady Hills, “to do something about getting rid of this . . . creature, and you’re—subsidizing him!”
    Jane rolled her eyes but had to smile. “Puffy, I’d hardly say I’m ‘subsidizing’ him. I gave him fi—some money.”
    â€œAnd you know what he’ll do with that money, don’t you.” It was a statement rather than a question.
    An image of the bottle neck protruding from Ivor’s torn pocket flashed into Jane’s mind. “What’s that, Puffy?”
    â€œBuy liquor, Jane, you know that. He’s an alcoholic, a homeless alcoholic who has been living outdoors in our village. In the train station, because old Kevin has kept the building unlocked