The Unraveling of Violeta Bell Read Online Free PDF Page B

“According to Dale Marabout’s story, the police found Bell’s stuff in his apartment. And he’s got quite a record, too.”

    “Yes they did, and yes he does,” Bob admitted. “But sorority sisters are sisters for life and, well—”

    I finished the sentence. “And I owe my shaky future at the paper to your good graces?”

    The Bob Averill of old would have gone ballistic over a remark like that. The new one only got more docile. “I can’t put Marabout or some other reporter on this. That would be unethical. This is a personal matter.”

    “But you can put me on it?”

    “No putting. Begging.”

    The waitress arrived with our platters. The meatloaf was stacked high inside huge Kaiser rolls. The enormous globs of au gratin potatoes were steaming. “Frankly, it feels more like putting,” I said.

    Bob hadn’t learned his lesson from the milkshake. He filled his mouth with potatoes, getting a dandy cheese burn on the roof of his mouth. “Look Maddy, I know this stinks. I’ve spent the last two years trying to stop you from snooping into murders and now I’m asking you to do exactly that. But for some reason you’re good at it.”

    He was right about that. For some reason I was good at it. “What if I say no?”

    Despite his weakened condition, he still had enough sense not to answer my question directly. “To tell you the truth, Maddy, I’ve never cared much for Jeannie. That’s Tippy’s sorority sister. Jeannie Salapardi. She’s full of herself and full of ideas for making me a better husband.”

    I’m sure my eyebrows went up about a foot. “Salapardi? Of the Honda-Toyota-Mitsubishi dealership Salapardis?”

    Bob grinned a bit. “That’s right. She’s married to Dave ‘Drive You Crazy’ Salapardi—”

    Again I finished the sentence. “The paper’s largest advertiser.”

    His grin wobbled into a frown. “I’m far more afraid of my wife than losing a million dollars a year in advertising.”

    “You’re an honest man, Bob.” I wasn’t being sarcastic. He was an honest man. And almost as afraid of me as he was of his wife. I knew he wouldn’t be asking for help unless he was in a real pickle. I summed things up. “So, you don’t like Jeannie Salapardi, and you want me to prove that her brother didn’t murder Violeta Bell?”

    Bob’s cheeks were stuffed full of meatloaf. He nodded as he chewed. “Actually, I’d consider it a personal victory if her brother were convicted. If he’s guilty.”

    That surprised me. “If he’s guilty?”

    The tortured husband gave way to the truth-loving newspaperman. “When Eddie French was twelve years old he shot his best friend in the foot. With a pellet gun. Accidentally. Gangrene set in and the boy lost half his foot. The boy was the star of the junior high school basketball team. Destined to be a star in high school and college. Maybe even the pros. That’s how good the kid was, apparently. Jeannie says that Eddie was so riddled with guilt that he smashed his pellet gun with a sledgehammer. He developed a physical aversion to guns of any sort. When he was drafted into the Army, during Vietnam, he refused to even touch a rifle. He spent the rest of his basic training shuffling between the psycho ward and the guardhouse. He was eventually given a dishonorable discharge.”

    I interrupted with the obvious. “But he’s a convicted criminal.”

    Bob was really chewing and nodding now. “Yes, he is. Burglary. Auto theft. Fencing. Bad checks. Dealing the evil weed. But nothing that ever involved guns.”

    I did not want to be intrigued. Not for all the Darjeeling tea in India. But I was intrigued. “And Violeta Bell was found shot full of holes.”

    Bob didn’t get me back to the paper until three o’clock. I immediately summoned Eric Chen. He dropped into the chair next to my desk and slid down until his neck was resting on the back. “Heaven’s to Betsy,” I barked, “this is a place of business. Show a little