Sweet Paradise by Gene Desrochers (most read books in the world of all time .txt) 📕

Junior tapped the screen and said, “Ku could have made the shot that got Kendal.”

Chapter 18

Hillary drank the remainder of the white wine left on her bedside table from the night before, just to wet her dry palate, mind you. She then came downstairs to discover Herbie on the phone, blasting someone for calling so damned early.

The blasted phone had woken her again from a perfectly sound sleep. She needed beauty sleep. The cream would only keep the bags at bay for so long. The insufferable police wouldn’t stop calling. They kept asking the same questions and wanting more information on her mother’s life, finances, habits. What did she know of Francine’s habits? Fact was, their mother kept all of them at arm’s length with the business. As far as she could surmise, Francine’s personal life was her work. She did nothing with them as children, and little changed once they became adults.

For the first time she considered abandoning the elegant, rotary-dial landline that sat on the end table. The antique had no off switch for the ringer, but Hillary liked that. She always feared she’d miss an important call. About what? The list was as endless and indistinct as the sky, although her nephew headed the list, that much was certain.

She next discovered Harold on the lawn coming unhinged. Harold yanked the arrow he’d just shot out of the target, dropped to his knees and violently stabbed the innocent grass, still moist with morning dew, fifteen times, as if the Bacon family quad were responsible for some grave misdeed.

From inside the French doors to the grand residence Hillary smirked at her anguished brother. Watching Harold like this brought her joy. He always tried to act so calm. He rarely let her see him totally lose control. If he’d known she was watching, he would undoubtedly have forced himself back under control rather than allow her to witness his inner demons at work. But at this distance, with the eastern sun reflecting on the French door, he was oblivious to her voyeurism.

Behind her, Herbie hung up the phone.

“Damned police. They want to know everything,” Herbie groaned coming up behind her. “They woke you up again, right?”

“Um-hmm,” she murmured, still watching Harold.

“They don’t like that we are each other’s alibis for the day mom died. They want to know more details.”

“We gave them details. Harold backed us up. We’re covered.”

He strolled over and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Can we trust him? Look at him. He’s weak.”

She turned around and gazed into her brother’s eyes. “He’s kept it to himself all these years. Besides, he was alone, so he needs us as much as we need him.”

Normally always clean-shaven except for his thick mustache, stubble had sprung up on Herbie’s neck the last few days. She rubbed it playfully. He grabbed her wrists and squeezed her fine bones till they compressed. Her face contorted with a moment of pain, then a devious smile cracked her lips.

“Want to play?” she asked in a breathy voice.

Flinging her wrists away, he slapped the frame of the French door. “This is no time for games, Hill. Evans wants more money.”

“I don’t care if we give it to him. We can be pariahs for all I care. So long as we have each other.” She held her breath after saying the last.

They looked out at the back of the Bacon Estate. Harold now lay motionless in the grass on the archery range, his chest rising and falling like a sprinter at the end of a race.

“Do you see this behavior? Does Harold look like he’s holding it together? He’s going to compromise everything. On top of that, how do we know he didn’t do it since he wasn’t with us and has no witnesses to his supposed whereabouts?”

Hillary’s playful demeanor vanished. She growled, “We know because he is our brother, and even if he did do it, he’s still our brother. No Bacons will go to prison over this.” His eyes remained fixed on Harold’s prone form. She inched closer, her breath hot on his ear. “Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

Chapter 19

The bar at the Greenhouse glowed like honey in sunlight. Some kind of special paint had been used below the varnish to give it a shimmering appearance. The Aussie bartender, Willy, said some Russian artist named Vlad, who was hiding out from the mob, had agreed to paint it during the last renovation in exchange for a month’s worth of chow.

“It was worth it,” I said every time I showed up there and he turned on the overhead lamp. The special thing about this type of painting, which apparently was as secret as the Coca-Cola formula, was that it became brighter or darker depending on how much light shown on it. The glow made your glass of alcohol seem even more heaven-sent at the end of a long day.

As I slugged my first gulp, movement on the stool next to me. Leber. He clapped me on the back like we were old pals.

“Boise. What up, da man?”

I gave a weary nod. “You’re in a chipper mood, Detective.”

He put his finger to his lips and hunched toward me. “Let’s be incognito tonight.”

“Whatever, man.” I chased my beer with heavily salted peanuts. “I’m not super-fond of police officers or detectives or anyone with a badge. What do you want from me?”

He ordered Bacardi and soda, then adjusted himself on the stool. “Preferred it better when the stools here had backs.” He rubbed his lower spine and winced. “Some kinda slipped disc, my chiropractor says. You believe that?”

Willy frisbeed a green Heineken coaster in front of Leber and set his drink on it.

“You friendly with Corey Hart?” I asked.

“Who’s that?”

“Never mind.”

Corey Hart sang the hit tune, I Wear My Sunglasses at Night. I loved the song, but found that the real guys who did this were