Honeymoon With Murder by Carolyn G. Hart

Author:Carolyn G. Hart [Hart, Carolyn G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9780553276084
Publisher: Crimeline
Published: 1988-11-30T13:00:00+00:00

Max studied the trapdoor in the light of his flash. It wasn’t bolted. It was only a couple of weeks ago that the Halcyon Development, Inc., heating and air technician made his annual fall visit to check the unit on the roof atop Confidential Commissions. Similar units, accessed by similar trapdoors, existed atop each of the harborfront stores. Now, it would be clear sailing, if the trapdoor above Halcyon Development, Inc., was similarly unbolted.

Humming “Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here,” Max wriggled his broad shoulders through the square space, pulled himself up, and landed lightly on the gritty tarred roof.

* * *

Ingrid’s keys jingled in the pocket of Annie’s white skirt as she pumped past the Gas ’N Go. She slowed, keeping to the shadows. When the soft glow from the Tent City lights glistened through the trees, she swung off the bike. Almost there. She heaved a quiet sigh of relief and satisfaction as she shoved the bike back into its spot beneath Ingrid’s carport. It should be clear sailing from here.

It was dark enough on the back side of Ingrid’s cabin to satisfy Jack the Ripper. Annie slithered up the back steps, unlocked the kitchen door, and stepped inside, closing it behind her.

A faint aroma of rose potpourri hung in the still air. The blinds were closed. Not a vestige of light seeped into the oblong room. Annie frowned in concentration, remembering the layout of Ingrid’s kitchen—sink on the back wall, overlooking the sound, stove and refrigerator against the wall to her right, small wooden kitchen table with two chairs directly in front of her, door to the living room centered in the opposite wall. She mustn’t walk into the table. A clatter might arouse one of the sleepers in the Tent City.

Stretching one hand out in front, Annie began to tiptoe. She had reached the door, obviously open, as her hand patted only air, when a rustling, scrabbling noise—a sound unmistakably near—blocked the air in her throat and made her heart race with triphammer rapidity.

She wasn’t alone in Ingrid’s cabin.

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