Murder on Iris Lane by Dorothy Read

Author:Dorothy Read [Read, Dorothy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Summerhill Terrace Press
Published: 2024-01-22T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

The New York Police Department had opened a file on the case at the request of Detective Raoul Fetcher, but not much else. Detective Miguel Perlo produced it along with the promised coffee and some pretty fresh old-fashioned doughnuts. He was blunt.

“Paczki, I’ve got eleven open murder investigations going on and they all happened right here. This Giordano dude gets offed three-thousand miles away, and apparently the perp is dead. That sounds like case closed to me, but if you need more, be my guest.”

Within an hour, Duncan had names and addresses and the keys to an unmarked car that was well past its prime. The starter cranked mulishly; this car hadn’t seen service for a while. It finally complied, and Duncan was off, with half of a tank of gas, to compete with New York City drivers who knew where they were going and didn’t mind blasting those who didn’t. His GPS mentored him to Galerie Classique but abandoned him when it came to finding parking. The third time around a wide swath of blocks, he saw a car pull out of a place a few doors down from the gallery. Triumphant, Duncan claimed it, to a hail of horns honking with no mercy while he took time to back into the spot.

The only person in the gallery was a very pretty, middle-aged, self-assured woman who looked like she’d be just as comfortable in a kitchen baking cookies as this elegant suite of rooms with eggshell-colored walls, gleaming wide-plank cherry flooring, art pieces professionally displayed, and long leather benches strategically placed for studying the art pieces. And buying them, Duncan expected.

“Good morning,” she greeted him. “You’re an early bird.” It was after ten o’clock in the morning, not early in Duncan’s view. “Are you looking for something in particular?” Duncan sensed cordiality from this lady who wore a pearl grey silk blouse with a flowing swing back over black slacks and sensible sling-back pumps with low heels. No hint of a hard sell approach, or even an expectation of selling anything.

“Actually I’m looking for the person who is in charge,” said Duncan. “Would that be you?”

“For the time being,” she smiled. “But I’m officially the executive assistant to the manager who is no longer with us.” Duncan understood the subtle meaning behind her words. “Jeanine Patterson,” she said and held out her hand.

“Duncan Paczki.” He shook her hand and then pulled out the wallet holding his badge. “I am investigating the murder of Rufo Giordano, your coworker, I believe.”

Her warm brown eyes blinked several times as she was reminded of the grizzly deaths of both Rufo and Margot. She was the one who had first received the news, and it had fallen to her to supply the names and contact information for their next of kin. In Margot’s case it was an estranged daughter who lobbied in Albany for the distilled spirits industry; in Rufo’s case, the long-abandoned but well-supported wife in Italy. Jeanine had insisted the dead

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