Death by Surprise (Carolyn Hart Classics) by Hart Carolyn

Author:Hart, Carolyn [Hart, Carolyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781616148706
Publisher: Prometheus Books
Published: 2013-11-05T00:00:00+00:00

Dear Mr. Nichols,

If The Beacon wants the real low-down on what kind of person Kenneth Carlisle is, so the voters can be protected, come to my apartment tonight at eight-fifteen.

It was signed by Francine Boutelle in a flashily flowing script.

I folded the letter, slipped it back into the envelope.

“And, of course, with the Beacon’s known fondness for the Carlisles, you came hotfoot.”

He didn’t rise to it. “I came. I didn’t know what to expect.” He looked again at Francine. “I didn’t expect this.”

“Neither did I,” I said wearily.

He called the police, carefully using a handkerchief to hold the receiver and a pen to move the dial. We waited five minutes for a patrol car and twenty minutes for the detectives.

Arrivals and departures continued over the next hour, the medical examiner, several squad cars, the photographic unit, more detectives, and finally, an ambulance. I didn’t watch as the expressionless young men swiftly rolled Francine onto the cart, slipped over a canvas cover, and wheeled her out into the night.

Harry Nichols and I waited in the foyer, in the way, but not, of course, free to go.

“Did you know her well?” he asked me.

I shook my head. “Not at all. I had met her once.”

“Had you ever met her?” I asked a little later.

“No.”

“So you came because of the letter, hoping to scare up some scandal against Kenneth.”

He wasn’t defensive. “Not precisely, Miss Carlisle.” He looked at me dispassionately. “I wouldn’t have minded learning something embarrassing to Carlisle.” For a moment, Nichols looked exasperated. “Going after your cousin isn’t especially easy, Miss Carlisle. He is too rich and successful to be involved in anything disreputable. The most you can say about Kenneth Carlisle is that he will bore you to death.”

That stung me to a reply. “Then why do you attack him, day after day, Mr. Nichols?”

“He is Robert Carlisle’s son. As far as I’m concerned, that will always be reason enough.”

“Not a particularly defensible position, I would think.”

“I don’t ever find it necessary, Miss Carlisle, to defend my positions.”

He was so sure of himself. Answerable to no one. A bad enemy.

Another siren cut through the night to die in the street outside. Through the propped-open door, I saw a man get out of the back of yet another police car and start up the walk.

It was clear, the way other police scurried around him, that this man was in charge.

“Who’s that?” I asked Harry Nichols.

He looked past me and his eyes flickered with interest.

“That’s Nelson Farris. Chief of detectives.”

Farris was tall and bulkily built. He wore dark slacks and a navy pullover sweater. As he came nearer, I saw that his face was blunt and hard. He wore his hair in a fairly long crew cut. He looked tough and competent.

Farris moved past us into the living room. The men there reported to him. Then a chubby-faced patrolman turned and pointed toward us.

Farris’ dark, heavy-lidded eyes studied us for a moment. He began to walk toward us.

I felt a rush of fear.

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