Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle by Pauline Jones (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

his life and the best night’s sleep in a month. He whistled as he went downstairs, meeting Delaney in the hall.

“Still high on pain medication?”

“Some things are better than drugs, Delaney.”

“You aren’t hitting on Pryce’s daughter, are you?”

“Of course not.” He avoided looking at Delaney. “Uh, where is she? I thought we were supposed to be protecting her?”

“She’s breakfasting with her aunts in there. And what’s this “we” stuff? I’m the only one who’s been watching her this morning, while you had a nice little lie in—”

“Well, I had to go pull her in off the street last night, so I figure that makes us even.”

“Off the street? Last night?” Delaney frowned. “What was she doing in the street last night?”

“Dancing. The frat had another party. I thought we had some guys watching her?”

“So did I. Guess we were both wrong.”

“How quaint. Men who will admit they’re wrong.”

They both turned quickly to find Luci leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed. Her expression was a puzzle that Mickey wasn’t afraid to meet.

No quarter asked, none given.

She didn’t say it out loud, but she might as well have. Mickey gave a slight nod, accepting her challenge, his eyes steely with resolve. That other areas got steely with desire, he chose to ignore.

Delaney gave them each an uneasy look, then said, a mite too heartily, “So what’s on the schedule for today?”

“I still have a lot of errands to run, but we’re going over the guest list this morning for the Sunday garden party. Dull stuff for New Orleans’ finest, I’d think.”

Mickey looked at Delaney with a sigh. He nodded.

“We probably ought to take a look at it, too.”

Luci’s answering smile was wicked. “Going to check out my aunts’ friends, are you? How deductive. I look forward to seeing you in action.” She indicated the room with a sweep of her hand. “Please, feel free to join us.”

Mickey paced forward, holding Luci’s green-eyed gaze as he aimed for her instead of the doorway she indicated. It was a harmless game of chicken, a small clash in this private battle of the sexes. But one he was determined to win, would have won, but fate intervened. When he was close enough to smell her perfume, just before she’d have to back down, the doorbell rang.

“You’d better get that,” she said. “Just in case it’s a mad murderer.”

It wasn’t the murderer. It was an officer bearing news about the autopsies of the John Doe aka Frosty the Frozen man and Reggie Seymour.

“Captain must have lit a fire under the coroner’s office to get both autopsies so quickly,” Mickey said.

“That or promised them his first born—” Delaney broke off, a slight flush staining his face.

Mickey pretended not to notice, then pretense became reality as he scanned the report on their recently thawed John Doe. Delaney worked his way through the one on Reggie Seymour.

Then they exchanged reports. Then they looked at each other in frustration.

“This doesn’t help a whole lot,” Mickey said. “Both shot through the heart with the same small caliber weapon. Frosty died approximately three to five hours after eating a sandwich and was probably frozen within the last five years because his dental plate wasn’t in use earlier than that. Not a real big help.”

“Reggie probably as much as five weeks ago. It’s been a dry month,” mused Delaney. “Got a positive ID from his record. Dental, what’s left of his prints are a match. The tattoos and jewelry substantiate the ID.” He sighed, giving Mickey a rueful look. “Well, at least we know the how. And half the who.”

“But there’s still a lot of whys, whens, wheres, the other who—” Unbidden from his memory came, “and that other Arthur.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey said. “Just something that’s been spinning in my brain. The unaccounted for neighbor. I’ll bet the old ladies could tell us something about him. If we can only find a way to get them to tell us.”

Dante looked up as Max slid in the door. Behind him his Persephone was almost finished. He’d miss her when she was gone, but there would be another. There would always be another. He lay down his pencil and leaned back in his chair, stretching.

“I talked to our guys watching the Seymour house.” Max hesitated, then said, “It seems the police are watching the house, too.”

“What?” Dante straightened, staring at his underling with narrowed eyes.

“Well,” Max said. “Maybe, maybe not. I talked to our snitch at the NOPD—seems they think someone is trying to kill Luci Seymour—there’s no hint of anything about the money.”

Dante frowned. “What’s going on, Max?”

“I don’t know. But at least the police don’t know either.”

The white square envelope was on the floor, just inside their door, when Fern and Donald got back from lunch.

“What is it?” Donald asked, heading for the beer while Fern studied the envelope.

“Must be some kind of mistake. Name on outside says it’s for ‘Arthur Miller and date.’”

“Arthur?” Donald looked at Fern. “Open it.” There was a short pause, then, impatiently, “Well? What is it?”

“You’re not going to believe it. It’s an invite to a party Sunday afternoon. At the Seymour’s.”

Donald stopped, stared at Fern, then grabbed the card. It only took a moment to read the words but Donald had to read them twice—because he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Is this some kind of joke, Fern? How’d Artie do it? Get them to invite us to the bash? We don’t know them! We’re trying to kill one of them!”

“Look, this was inside, too.” Fern held out another scrap of paper. This one took even less time to read. It only had two words in bold black print: Do it.

“It could be a trap,” Fern said.

“Could be,” Donald said, “or the answer to all our problems. Can’t miss face-to-face.”

Fern nodded, her thoughts moving on. “I’ll need something to wear. Didn’t bring a party dress. And a gift.”

“A gift?” Donald looked at her like she’d lost it.

“It’s a wedding party, Donald.