Murder in Greenwich Village by Liz Freeland

Author:Liz Freeland [Freeland, Liz]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2018-03-09T05:00:00+00:00

Louise—I hope you meant what you said this evening.

“Night, Louise,” Callie called out, snapping off the light.

“Good night.” I was smiling. Even the prospect of a stiff back in the morning didn’t put me out of humor now. I didn’t entirely trust Ford’s flirtation, but the memory of his blue eyes buoyed me, and I settled onto my thin pallet as if I were sinking into half a foot of goose down. I went over our conversation at his apartment again, word by word, gesture by gesture, glance by glance. I could almost feel his lips on my cheek.

I hope you meant what you said . . .

My eyes popped open. I sat up, knees to my chest, frowning. A moment later I was kneeling by the window, examining the handwriting on the envelope in the scant light coming through the dirty panes. Louise—I hope you meant what you said this evening.

Ford hadn’t written anything on that envelope while I was with him this evening, and he hadn’t been out of my sight the whole time I was in his room. And of course he’d had no way of knowing in advance that I’d visit him. Which meant that the note had been scrawled on the previous evening we’d met. The night of Ethel’s murder.

My hands shook, and I put the envelope down. My stomach gnawed, reminding me that I’d skipped dinner. There was no more food, but food would have just made me queasier anyway. I wasn’t sick to my stomach. I was sick at heart.

But why should I be? This was what I’d suspected all along. Wally hadn’t seen Otto on the stairs the night of the murder—he’d seen Ford. Ford had been carrying that manila envelope with its message to me. I could imagine it all clearly. He’d left Aunt Irene’s, gone home, dug up his story, and then, deciding to strike while the iron was hot, walked the several blocks to leave it at my door. But then . . . what had happened? Had he happened upon the murder scene . . . or was he the murderer?

The contempt with which he’d stared at Callie last Thursday night chilled my blood now. Could Ford have killed Ethel?

It didn’t take much for my ghoulish imagination to gallop away with me. I gulped in a deep breath and thought again, more logically. Contempt wasn’t murderous rage. And he’d taken a long look at Callie at the party. He wouldn’t have confused her with Ethel . . . if Ethel had come to the door. Especially since he would have assumed that Callie and I were still at Aunt Irene’s. He’d probably written the note on the envelope before he’d left his flat, knowing I wouldn’t be in.

And what about the money? He certainly didn’t live like a man who’d just stolen a bundle. Besides, he wouldn’t have known to look for it, and wouldn’t have reason to suspect that there was money hidden to begin with. The apartment hadn’t been ransacked.

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