Tressed to Kill Read Online Free PDF Page A

waiting,” she said. She draped a white cardigan around her shoulders and gathered up her tote, stuffed with her knitting and files for the SODS project.
We left as a janitor with string mop in hand waved at us from the stage and shut off the lights in the auditorium. Eerie exit lighting illuminated the hall as we made our way to the front entrance. The stone floors glistened wetly, so rather than dirty the clean floor, we headed for the back door that opened to the parking lot. Night air, fragrant with gardenia and jasmine, washed over us in a warm gust.
“We’re in for a storm,” Violetta announced, massaging her left shoulder, famous town-wide as a predictor of bad weather.
I caught a hint of ozone in the air and breathed deeply, feeling like I’d been holding my breath ever since Constance DuBois entered the salon. “We need the rain.” Browning lawns and wilting shrubs testified to an unusually dry spring. The town’s gardeners—and they were legion—had probably gotten together for a quick rain dance ceremony.
We started across the parking lot, the rising wind pushing us. Even though it was after nine, the asphalt still retained the heat of a sultry May day, and its tackiness grabbed at our shoes. Yuck. Only a handful of cars remained.
“You doing okay?” I asked Mom, giving her a sideways look.
The sodium-vapor lights in the parking lot cast an orangey glow that softened her outline. Her glasses had settled halfway down her nose, and her cardigan sat askew on her shoulders. With her hair worked into tufty spikes with styling product, she looked like a cozy Beatrix Potter hedgehog.
“I think we can beat Morestuf,” she said, dodging the real issue. “The SODS are going to circulate a petition, and we’re all going to review our pricing policies. Something that Morestuf man said stuck with me. We shouldn’t be setting our prices to earn as much as we can from the tourists. We’ve got to remember the people who live here year-round, especially the ones less fortunate than we are.”
“Mom, you already—” A sound that was half-groan, half-gargle caught my attention. I looked around. We had reached the far edge of the parking lot where it butted up against Carver Square, a small plot of grass and shrubs with ornamental benches. A lone car, a dark Jaguar, was parked across two spaces in an attempt, I guessed, to avoid door dings. The sound seemed to come from the driver’s side of the car.
Mom and I glanced at each other and, with one accord, leaned to see around the trunk. The first thing I noticed was a shoe, a pump, lying by the rear tire. As my eyes scanned the ground, I picked out a bare foot and then a glimmer of paleness that must be a leg.
“Someone’s hurt,” Mom said. She started toward the supine figure, dropped to her knees, and put a hand on its shoulder. “Are you okay? Can you hear me? Ooh!”
A crack of thunder made me jump as lightning illuminated the waxy face of Constance DuBois and my mother kneeling beside the body, staring at her uplifted hand coated with blood. Before my vision returned to normal, I had my cell phone out and was dialing 911.

MOM INSISTED ON DRAPING HER CARDIGAN OVER Constance’s face once I ascertained that she was gone by feeling for a pulse on her neck. Then, she let me put an arm around her shoulders and lead her to the closest bench in Carver Square while we waited for the police to arrive. She was shivering. When she couldn’t find a tissue in her tote, she wiped her bloodied hand on the grass, dragging it back and forth numerous times. Lightning came more often now, although the rain held off, and the look of confusion and sadness on her face made me ache.
“Poor Constance,” she said.
“Poor Simone.” I thought how devastated I’d be if something happened to Mom and conjured up real sympathy for Constance’s daughter.
“I wonder what happened? It wasn’t a heart attack.”
Not with all that blood. “Maybe she tripped and banged her head.”
“Mmm.”
A brief silence fell, broken