THE DEEP END Read Online Free PDF Page B

called from the front hall.
    “In the kitchen,” I replied.
    “Your husband?” Detective Jones asked.
    “A friend.”
    “He has a key?” Disapproval was writ clearly across the detective’s face. Let him disapprove. It was none of his business who did or did not have a key to my house. Powers didn’t. He just didn’t bother with the doorbell.
    “He’s like family.”
    Powers Foster—all long legs and pointy elbows, effortless charm and affected elegance—exploded into the kitchen. “You poor darling. I just heard. How are you? Are you all right?”
    Another person who cared about the answer. That made three. I glanced at Detective Jones, and the censure that had settled onto his face, and scratched him from the sincere caring list. That made two. I walked into Powers’ open arms for an exuberant hug, pulling away only when my throat began to swell.
    “Where’s Harriet?”
    I was ridiculously grateful for a question that had nothing to do with murder or my marriage. “She went to visit her mother.”
    “Did she leave you anything besides curried chicken salad?” He wrinkled his nose. “I doubt it. I’m taking you and Grace out to dinner. I heard about the most marvelous new place. It’s a créperie. They’re so uppity they only speak French. Jambon et fromage pour moi .”
    Only he pronounced it jam bone ate from age pore moi.
    Powers’ attempts to amuse me were usually more clever than a bad French accent. I tried for a polite smile but couldn’t quite manage it.
    Detective Jones cleared his throat and Powers pretended to notice him. I wasn’t fooled. The last time Powers failed to notice an attractive man within a half-second of entering a room Eisenhower was in office.
    Detective Jones repeated Powers’ sentence with an accent worthy of the sixteenth arrondissement. “ Je voudrais un crêpe de jambon et fromage s’il vous plait .”
    Powers locked his spring green gaze on the detective and assessed. He began with the detective’s polished loafers then moved his gaze slowly up the detective’s plaid clad legs. It lingered on Detective Jones’ broad chest and shoulders until it finally reached his face. Usually when Powers blatantly checked out another man, he was met with squirming or flushing or an angry glare.
    Detective Jones responded with an amused smile.
    “Powers Foster.” He stuck out his hand. “And you are?”
    The policeman shook Powers’ hand. “A homicide detective.”
    Powers grinned at me. “If I’d known detectives were so delectable I would have told Madeline to get herself knocked off years ago. Where are you from, Homicide Detective?”
    “San Francisco.”
    “Really?” Powers wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Why did you leave?”
    “I didn’t fit in.”
    Powers fluttered his eyelashes. “Oh?”
    Of course Detective Jones, follower of rules, hadn’t fit in with the Haight-Ashbury vibe. He’d come to the Midwest where people were as dependable as the sun rising in the east. “The lifestyle was a little too free and easy for me,” he said.
    “What a heartbreaking shame. Free and easy is my motto.” Powers raised an inviting brow. “You might even call it a personal manifesto.”
    Detective Jones’ lips quirked. “You knew Mrs. Harper?” Somehow, I liked him better for not being threatened by Powers’ come on.
    “She worked for me. Part-time.”
    “You must be the art dealer.”
    “Guilty as charged.”
    Max chose that moment to get up, stretch, and sidle toward Powers. The two shared a love-hate relationship. Max loved Powers. Powers hated Max. It wasn’t personal. Powers hated any animal that might shed on his navy pants.
    “When did you last see her?” Detective Jones asked.
    Powers shifted, trying to keep the center island between Max and his pants. “Am I a suspect?”
    “Please answer the question.”
    Powers sidestepped Max. “Ellison, be a darling and call the beast.”
    “He just wants you to pet him.” Watching Powers try