Murder by Page One by Olivia Matthews (good novels to read in english TXT) 📕

Again Bobby took his time answering. He lifted his ball cap and ran the thick, blunt fingers of his right hand through his glossy dark hair. His orange, black, and brown snake tattoo undulated as his fingers flexed. The scratches on the back of his hand were fading.

Bobby pulled his cap back on and crossed his arms before tossing me a half smile. “Doesn’t the woman suspect her husband’s ex-wife of killing him?”

Bobby’s expression was open and friendly, yet I sensed him daring me to ask the obvious question: did he believe Betty may have killed Fiona because of her book?

No one believed Betty had anything to do with Buddy’s death. And only Betty suspected Fiona of killing Buddy. The coroner had ruled Buddy died of natural causes. But could the plot of Fiona’s book make Betty angry enough to do more than confront Fiona about it? Could it have pushed her to kill the woman?

As difficult as this was, I had to ask the uncomfortable question to clear Betty and Bobby of suspicion—or further pursue them as viable suspects.

I braced myself as best I could. “The plot of Fiona’s book turns the tables on your mother. She’d been very vocal about her suspicions that Fiona had something to do with your father’s death.” When he didn’t comment, I continued. “Did your mother attend the signing to confront Fiona?”

“Did she?” Bobby’s gaze never flickered. His stance never shifted.

“Was your mother very angry about Fiona’s book?”

Bobby removed his hat and dragged his fingers through his hair again. He resettled his cap, refolded his arms. His half smile grew into an engaging grin. “Ms. Marvey, I understand you’re concerned about Ms. Jo. I feel really bad that the deputies consider her a suspect. Ms. Jo’s a real nice lady. She has great taste in ink. But as nice as Ms. Jo may be and as bad as I may feel about the situation she’s in, I’m not going to help you convince the deputies that either my mama or I—or both of us—are killers. That’s just not going to happen.”

Bobby had made that entire speech without making threats, raising his voice, or losing his smile. Impressive.

I inclined my head in acknowledgement of his message. He was at least as protective of his mother as I was of Jo. “Understood, Bobby. And I want you to understand I’m not going to let my friend be punished for something someone else has done.”

Bobby touched the bill of his ball cap. “Understood, ma’am.”

“One more question.” I gestured toward his right hand. “How did you get those scratches?”

His eyes laughed at me. “Replacing a water heater, ma’am.”

We took each other’s measure one last time before we said our goodbyes. Well, I said goodbye. Bobby gave me another boyish smile.

He was a man of few words. During our conversation, he’d never volunteered a single detail about himself or his mother. I still didn’t know how he felt about Fiona, if he believed she had something to do with his father’s death, or whether he planned to read Fiona’s book. Before re-entering the library, I glanced over my shoulder. Bobby was studying me with a brooding stare.

I sensed his languid persona masked a killer intellect.

I carried my leftover baked ziti, which I’d reheated for lunch in the staff kitchen, back to my office Wednesday afternoon. After my encounters with Betty and Bobby, I would’ve preferred chocolate-covered peanuts, though.

As I approached my desk, a warning whispered in the back of my mind. Was something different about my office, or was I imagining things? Laying the plastic container that held my lunch on my desk, I stepped back for a visual sweep of my room. Everything appeared as expected. My cluttered desk was still cluttered. My guest chairs and my conversation table and chairs seemed the same. With a mental shrug, I returned to my pasta. A knock on my door stopped me from crossing to my seat.

Adrian stood in the threshold, looking sheepish. “Sorry to interrupt your lunch, Marvey, but I pulled the information on the library cardholders that you were askin’ for.”

“No problem. This is a working lunch. Come in.” I settled onto my chair. But as Adrian rounded my desk, the ground moved beneath me. I began to fall.

My gasp of surprise morphed into a cry of fear. Large hands gripped my upper arms. My head bounced back against a flat abdomen. My feet scrambled for stability on the plastic mat beneath my desk, even as Adrian pulled me up.

“Thank you.” My gratitude was breathless.

What just happened?

“You’re welcome.” Adrian seemed equally disturbed.

I pressed a hand to my chest. My heart pounded beneath my palm. “Thank God you have such quick reflexes.” My voice shook.

“I played basketball all through school. Are you okay?” His blue eyes were dark with concern as he regarded me. His hands still cuffed my arms. I couldn’t tell whether it was to steady me or himself.

My muscles trembled as though an electric current cycled through my body. I nodded, and Adrian let his arms drop.

“What happened?” I turned back to my desk and stared at what used to be my chair. “The chair had probably been here when the bus depot opened sixty years ago, but it was sturdy.”

The item in question now lay in parts on the gray Berber carpet. Its legs had rolled under my desk and toppled over. The back lay wobbling beside Adrian and me.

“That coulda been a bad fall.” Adrian looked over his shoulder toward my window. “Your head would’ve banged up against the windowsill.”

My gaze dropped to the oak wood sill—and its knife-sharp corner. I swallowed. Hard. “I might’ve knocked myself unconscious.”

“Or worse.”

An image of Fiona’s lifeless body in Jo’s storage room settled in my mind. I briefly squeezed my eyes shut, forcing it away, then turned back to Adrian. “Thanks again. I’m really glad you were here.”

“I am too.” He bent to collect the chair’s legs, then crossed to put them beside