Trouble in the Town Hall Read Online Free PDF

cashier.
    â€œNo, it was nothing like that.” The shop was beginning to empty as the tourists followed the compelling voice of the organ. “I—um—can we talk about it later? I’ll just leave my purse—”
    But it was too late. The volunteer had dealt with the last purchase and was edging toward us like a nervous cat, pale blue eyes full of apprehension. Clarice Pettifer. Mrs. Archibald Pettifer.
    â€œOh, whatever happened, Dorothy?” she gasped. “Willie said you were with the police!”
    There was no evading it. I had wanted a little time to organize my response before facing Clarice, but the shop had cleared. It was just the three of us. I had no excuse.
    I took a deep breath. “Clarice, you’d better come back and sit down.”
    â€œWhy?” Her voice rose and there were pink spots on her cheeks where her pale color had faded even more, leaving painfully obvious makeup. “What’s the matter? It isn’t—” her hand flew to her mouth “—it isn’t Archie?”
    â€œNo, he’s—I’m sure he’s fine. Do sit down.”
    Mrs. Williamson, bewildered but cooperative, helped me get her into the staff room and onto a chair.
    â€œTell me, you must tell me!”
    I was going about this very badly. Clarice was a fragile, nervy type. Mention of a dead body even in the abstract would upset her, and with her husband involved, I had hoped to break the news gently. Some hope.
    â€œIt’s nothing to get upset about, really, but—well, it does concern your husband, in a way.” I hurried on, trying not to meet Clarice’s red-rimmed eyes.
    â€œIt’s just that—well, I happened to be in the Town Hall—”
    â€œThe Town Hall?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and her hand moved to her mouth again.
    â€œYes, I was talking to Mrs. Finch, the cleaning lady, and she happened to—um—” I cast about for a euphemism. There weren’t any.
    â€œI’m sorry, but she—we—found a dead man.”
    We were able to catch Clarice before she hit the floor.
    B ETWEEN US, WE managed to move her to the shabby couch that, with a dilapidated overstuffed chair, a tiny sink, and an electric kettle, constituted the luxury of the staff room. I bathed her forehead with cool water while Mrs. Williamson ran distractedly into the shop to shoo out two or three browsers and put the “Closed” sign on the door. When she got back, Clarice was beginning to stir.
    â€œI think we’d better have the doctor, don’t you?” said Mrs. Williamson. She hugged her midriff; her ulcer must have been giving her fits.
    â€œOh, no,” said Clarice, weakly but quite distinctly. “I’m quite all right, really.” She struggled to sit up and went white again. “No, if I could just—rest for a bit—really, I don’t want a doctor—Archie wouldn’t like—might I have a glass of water, do you think?”
    I got the water. “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor? You’re still terribly pale.”
    â€œNo.”
    I recognized in the set of the little rosebud mouth the stubbornness sometimes found in normally compliant people. “Then I’m taking you home. Do you have your car?”
    â€œOh, no, I’m sure I can manage. We can’t leave Willie—the shop—”
    â€œDon’t be silly.” Mrs. Williamson’s voice was suddenly crisp. “You’ve both—had a shock. If I can’t cope alone, I’ll recruit some emergency help or leave the shop closed.”
    It was a noble sacrifice at the height of the tourist season, and I said so. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Williamson. If I see someone on my way out, I’ll—”
    â€œYou will not; you’ve enough to do. I’ll see to it. And I do wish you’d call me Willie. You make me feel like your grandmother. Clarice, can you