The Girl Is Murder Read Online Free PDF

made me feel from everyone else. And so eventually I stopped making an effort to ride the subway uptown, stopped responding to her invitations, rejected offers to meet me halfway between her world and mine. On the Upper East Side I was the girl whose life forever changed when her mother had killed herself. But in our new home, I could just be Iris Anderson, daughter of an injured vet, a man who’d bravely endured Pearl Harbor.
    “She said she’s tried calling you,” said Bev.
    “I’ve been awfully busy,” I said. “New school and all that.”
    “You have to tell us all about the Lower East Side.” She made it sound like some exotic destination she was thinking of visiting if she ever got her passport in order.
    “There’s not really much to tell,” I said.
    “Oh, come now,” said Bev. “What are the people like?”
    Just like you , I almost replied. Only without the money. “I’ve kind of kept to myself,” I said.
    “It’s probably safer that way,” said Bev.
    “And how is public school?” asked Bea.
    “Swell.” I could see they weren’t buying it. And why should they? We’d spent years mocking the kids who went to public school. “It’s so strange being around boys,” I added. I could tell that piqued their interest.
    “What’s it like?” asked Bea.
    “More nerve-racking, I guess.”
    “Could you imagine getting to eat lunch with boys every day?” Bea said to her sister.
    “I don’t think I’d like it,” said Bev. “I like going to an all-girls school.”
    “Don’t be such a prude,” said Bea.
    “I’m not. Besides, it’s not just boys Iris is around, it’s colored boys, right?” She lowered her voice when she said it, as though admitting I went to school with kids of other races might cause me to contaminate their neighborhood.
    “There are Puerto Ricans and Italians, sure.”
    “Well, be careful,” said Bev.
    I wanted them to go on their way, but it was clear I was going to have to be the one to end the conversation.
    I looked off into the distance, where a woman wearing a hat festooned with a peacock feather was stepping out of a cab. “There’s my aunt,” I said. “I better go. Tell Grace I said hello.”
    “We will,” said Bea, and then she took her sister by the arm and left. I waited until I could no longer see them before reclaiming my seat on the bench.
    A breeze ruffled the pages of the Archie comic I’d brought along to occupy myself. With the wind came the aroma of early fall and something else—Mama’s perfume. I turned, half expecting to find her behind me, but the air was empty. In our new house there was never any fear of stumbling upon her—after all, she’d never been there in life. But here on these streets, where she used to shop and visit with her friends, my mother’s voice carried on the wind, her heels click-clacked down the sidewalk, her apartment keys jingled at their peculiar frequency. Was this why Pop had moved us? Not because of money, but to escape her memory?
    Stop it , I told myself. Focus on the task at hand.
    According to Pop’s notes, Louise Wilson left the house every Tuesday night at seven for a Veterans of Foreign Wars Ladies Auxiliary meeting, or so she said. Lately she’d returned late in the evening with some new excuse about organizing clothes for Bundles for Britain or losing track of the time while knitting socks for soldiers and exchanging gossip. Once Mr. Wilson had gone to the church where the group was allegedly meeting, only to find its lights turned off and no sign of the dozen or so women Mrs. Wilson claimed came to every meeting. On another occasion, he followed her all the way to the Waldorf, where she disappeared inside before he was able to determine which direction she’d turned.
    He had provided a photo of her that I’d struggled to memorize in the hours when Pop wasn’t home. In it she stood beside her husband, her hands meekly folded in her lap, her smile tight and toothless. Her side was glued to