Bone Rattle by Marc Cameron (best ereader for pdf .TXT) 📕

The painting was at once a reminder not to trust anything that beautiful – and a not-so-subtle message to those who worked for Harold Grimsson that he was not above killing a creature he dearly loved.

Her paramour had come forward after her death, revealing that Grimsson had motive. Internet warriors went insane, offering countless conspiracy theories as to why he’d never been arrested.

They’d all watched episodes of CSI and rested assured that some tidbit of a clue would turn up to put the killer in jail. It hadn’t. Grimsson had been too careful. He cooperated with law enforcement, grieved like a widowed husband was expected to grieve, blew up when they told him of his wife’s adultery. Police were trained to look for behaviors that were out of the norm. Grimsson’s performance was flawless in its normality.

Time ticked by, the news cycled, and winter came and went. The police made no headway, and Internet warriors found other things to rail against. Grimsson donated money to schools and museums. He was careful never to act as if he’d put his wife’s death behind him, mentioning her at every public appearance. Most of those who suspected him at first began to see him as a poor guy who’d lost his spouse. The few who still thought him guilty surely saw him as all the more intimidating. If they were right, he’d gotten away with murder.

He raised his tumbler of Glenfiddich toward the senators in a halfhearted toast and stifled a chuckle. That painting scared these dumb bastards shitless. They didn’t realize that drowning his wife wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever done. It was, though, perhaps the smartest plan he’d ever come up with.

Grimsson had been extremely careful with his approach so she didn’t put up a fight. She was already in the tub when he came in, the water lapping at her magnificent collarbones. She’d sat up, half rising the way a guilty wife would do when she thinks her husband might have found out about her lover. Grimsson kept his face passive, even as he’d slammed her head backward against the edge of the tub. The blow had caused a small contusion, no larger than a quarter, behind her right ear. It hadn’t knocked her out. Grimsson knew from experience that it was more difficult to knock someone out than Hollywood depicted. It stunned her, though, allowing him to hold her under without much fuss. She’d clawed at him, of course, and thrashed some, but the tub was slick and any bruising was easily explained away by the initial fall that had caused the injury to her head. He’d worn long sleeves – so there would be none of his flesh under her fingernails.

She’d gone limp much faster than he’d supposed she would. He suspected she might be acting. She’d always been so good at that. He held her under for another full minute – watching the gossamer trickle of blood wash away from the wound on her head while the faucet ran wide open at the foot of the tub. Grimsson had simply walked away and flown to Anchorage for business that evening. Marisa’s body had lain submerged under an open faucet for two days. The bathroom floor flooded, destroying any clues the authorities might have found. She liked her baths extra hot, meaning she’d steeped there until the housekeeper came in. The medical examiner found it impossible to pin down the time of death.

Grimsson swore that his wife was alive when he left. No one could prove otherwise, no matter what their gut told them to believe.

The senators swirled their glasses ever so slightly, tinkling the ice. They wanted Grimsson to suggest they have a little more of his eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich. He would give it to them, of course. In time. The girls would be here soon and they would take the nervous edge off these two, stop them from fretting like a couple of old women. Girls, flown up from Seattle so they didn’t know faces. That always did the trick.

Grimsson finally grew tired of the incessant sound of rattling ice and got up to get more whiskey.

Politicians were a squirmy lot, and keeping one in your pocket meant constant oiling with good booze and submissive women.

Grimsson filled the senators’ glasses himself. Not because he was a particularly good host, these buffoons would be too free and easy with his Glenfiddich if he let them pour their own. Dollarhyde always stuck with ginger ale – and though this meant he didn’t drink up all Grimsson’s good whiskey, it was just another off-putting thing that made it difficult to trust him completely. Setting the bottle down on the oaken bar behind him, Grimsson sank down in the chair and took a black briar pipe from the pocket of his wool shirt. He’d taken up smoking a pipe shortly after his wife’s death. His attorney said it made him look more avuncular, whatever the hell that meant. In any case, the process of cleaning and repacking the bowl took his mind off having to work with idiots like Senator Loop.

The soapy man looked as if he might sunburn if he got too near a lightbulb. He pushed a wispy lock of blond hair off his forehead and stared into his glass. At length, Grimsson shot a quick glance at Senator Fawsey, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Fawsey, a politician from Juneau, had the dark features and rugged good looks of a model from a sporting goods catalog. He was easily the more grounded of Grimsson’s two pets, with a good head for money and practicality – which meant he was willing to do practically anything that was necessary to make money. It was good to have a steady man on the payroll, but it also meant Grimsson had to fork over more money to him, a factoid both men kept from soapy Senator Loop.

Fawsey took a