The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4 by David Carter (best finance books of all time .txt) 📕

He was a good kisser too.

And that was incredibly important, as it is to most women. A better kisser than Greg ever was, though his body wasn’t in Greg’s league. Oh, he was fit right enough, David that is, slim and toned, or so she imagined beneath his tight fitting clothes, but not a muscular hunk like Gregory, but David was six feet and that was all good too. But then again, neither of them were as funny and amusing as Rodney had been. That was for sure, because Rodney was the most amusing and desirable man she had ever met, and she sighed hard, though that was all over now, and always would be.

She had taken to fantasising about him, David that is, and it took a lot to remove Rodney from the position of Fantasy Man Number One, but he had, recently he had, and that had to mean something.

And that was another thing about very hot baths. They really did relax her and lull her into a place that few other things did, so much so that the passage of time meant little to her. It flew by, and it was only the significant cooling of the water that brought her back to the here and now.

‘Shit!’ she said aloud. Standing up and reaching for the fresh white towel, and realising that she was going to be late. She dried herself and went through to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe and took out the dress. It still looked cool, and new too. She’d only worn it two or three times, and was confident in its magic. She slipped it on, zipped up the back, looked at herself in the long mirror, front, side, and back, and rubbed her flat hand down her slim taught body, smoothing out a couple of tiny creases.

Yes! She would do. Damned right she would do. If Davey boy didn’t fancy the backside off her in this, there must be something wrong with the man. She brushed her straight blonde hair, added a little make-up, though not a lot for she never needed it. Grabbed the incredibly expensive American perfume that her father had brought back from New York for her, and sprayed a little, and then a little more. Returned to the wardrobe, took out the black patent leather heels and slipped them on.

One last look in the mirror, and that brought forth a satisfied smile. She was a lucky girl and she knew it. She had everything in life, a nice apartment, good car, great job that she really enjoyed, good looks, great health, but no steady boyfriend, or husband, and definitely no children, so maybe not quite everything.

Her mobile was on the small dining table in the living room. It began that old fashioned jangly double ringing tone.

She ran through and picked up.

It was David. Karen smiled.

‘Haven’t you left yet?’ she said.

‘I have a little problem at this end.’

‘Oh, what?’

‘Something’s come up.’

‘What’s come up?’

‘Work issues.’

‘What kind of bloody work issues?’

‘The boss wants me to go down and see someone in Malpas.’

‘What? Now?’

‘Yep, sorry. Right away. He was going to go himself, but he’s had a fall at home and sprained his ankle, or so he says.’

‘Typical! Can’t it be rescheduled?’

‘No. The contract has to be signed tonight, or we’ll lose it to the competition.’

‘Well, how long are you going to be?’

‘All night. You know what these corn millers are like. Staying power of long distance runners. It’ll go on long past midnight. I’m really sorry, Karen. Can we do it tomorrow night instead.’

‘I can’t do tomorrow!’ said Karen in a rush.

‘Well, we’ll talk about it tomorrow night and sort something out.’

‘If you want.’

‘Course I want. Look, I’ll have to go, ring you, yeah.’

‘Yeah,’ but by then he’d already gone.

Karen tossed the phone back on the table with a clunk.

‘Fuck!’ she said aloud, and returned to the bedroom and kicked off her shoes, and removed the dress and slipped on some loose jeans. Returned to the kitchen and took a vegetable cannelloni from the freezer and set it in the microwave with a bang.

Why did so many men have to be such complete absolute and utter dorks? It always seemed to come with the territory. She wouldn’t fantasise about David bloody Baker that night, or any other night, come to that, or if she did, it would only be in his gruesome bloody murder. She glanced at her watch. A quarter to nine. Another wasted evening spent alone with nothing to show for it.

Maybe Internet men were just too much trouble. It was beginning to look that way. The microwave pinged. She took the meal out. It didn’t look great. She ate half and left the rest. Went to the fridge. Took out a big pack of fresh raspberries. Saw a half drunk bottle of chardonnay there. Took that out too and poured a large glass. Sat in front of the rubbish telly and sipped the wine and pigged out on the berries. They were good. Best thing of the whole evening. By miles.

A huge flash of lightning lit up the flat. Somehow that seemed to sum things up. All flash and no bang.

WALTER HAD DONE WHAT he always said he wouldn’t do, he had made far too much spaghetti Bolognese, but when do you ever see half size jars of that delicious and very fattening sauce? Answer: Never, so what are you meant to do, throw half of it away? He wasn’t a throw food away kind of guy, and promised himself that he would only eat half, and maybe save the rest for tomorrow.

But it was so tasty, and he hadn’t eaten that much all day, and he really didn’t fancy eating the same thing again tomorrow, and he’d let temptation get the better of him, and returned to the pot and taken a little more, and then there was only a