Cold Death by Mary Stone (best e reader for android TXT) 📕

blazer in the mirrored wall and patted her carefully styled blonde hair before clicking out of the elevator in the direction of the Patrick Dougherty installation. As a member of the museum’s charity foundation, she’d wandered these airy, clean halls enough to turn left through the Twentieth Century Charleston exhibit without consulting a map.

She arrived at the atrium with five minutes to spare. The treelike sculpture inside was another example of contemporary art, but one that appealed to Helen’s sensibilities. With this piece, the artist had managed to strike that delicate balance between the whimsical and the absurd. The sculpture was a crowd-pleaser, which was why Helen had selected the atrium as the perfect meeting spot.

Donors tended to loosen their purse strings more when they got a taste of the art their contributions funded.

The sculpture’s woven twigs and branches often served to soothe Helen, but they had little effect today as she meandered through the exhibit. Her head was far too full of those awful news reports about Eleanor’s boss to relax. She fiddled with her sleeve, fretting. Such a gruesome murder, and in the police department’s own parking garage, no less. What kind of criminal risked that type of exposure?

Only the most brazen. The kind who would let nothing stop him from attacking again, Helen suspected. And who was to say that her Eleanor wouldn’t be the next target? She wrung her hands together and shuddered. No wonder she’d found more gray hairs this morning. This whole situation was simply too dreadful to consider.

Helen returned to the front of the atrium to wait, fighting the uneasiness in her stomach. She’d tried so hard to accept Eleanor’s career choice, to set aside her qualms and be supportive, but how could anyone expect a mother to endorse a job that seemed dead set on killing her child?

She fiddled with the tasteful tennis bracelet on her wrist and smoothed the frown from her features. At her age, too much frowning would deepen the wrinkles by the hour. Along with the gray hairs, her wrinkles had grown by leaps and bounds since the day Eleanor signed up for the ridiculous detective job.

Her heel tapped an anxious beat on the floor before she steeled her spine and adjusted her blazer’s hem. This absurdity had carried on quite long enough. It was past time for her to schedule a chat with Eleanor about her future. Of course, the conversation would require a delicate touch. Even as a toddler, Eleanor had dedicated herself to proving the old redheaded stereotype about stubbornness true.

A rueful smile curved Helen’s coral lips. Good thing for her that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. She might not be as obviously muleheaded as her feisty offspring, but she was plenty strong-willed in her right, if more polite with how she voiced her positions.

They didn’t call Southern ladies steel magnolias for nothing.

She toyed with the links on the tennis bracelet and plotted. Her husband had been pestering her for the past two months to start planning a family vacation in celebration of their upcoming anniversary. Helen liked to pride herself on rarely resorting to manipulation to get her own way. In this instance, however, a little guilt wouldn’t hurt anyone. Not when Eleanor taking a break from that ghastly job could very well be a matter of life and death.

Besides, the stress of fretting over her daughter’s safety was taking a toll on Helen’s health, and Eleanor was long overdue for vacation from work.

And if Helen could convince her daughter to change careers during the trip? All the better.

Who knew? Perhaps she could persuade Eleanor to assist her here at the museum. When it came to fundraising, extra hands on deck were always beneficial. Helen enjoyed the planning, organizing, and community outreach that accompanied her position as head of the charitable foundation. Maybe Eleanor would learn to appreciate working in the nonprofit sector too.

The satisfaction of achieving goals and seeing her visions become reality filled Helen with satisfaction. Once they met their next fundraising goal, the museum could hire contractors to fix the out-of-date electrical wiring that hindered parts of the western wing. Without the much-needed repairs, the risk of accidental fire loomed over the museum like a hovering funnel cloud.

Two hundred thousand dollars. That was the amount that Mr. Ray needed to sign on his check today in order for the museum to reach its goal. She smoothed her palms along the jacket’s lapels and fixed her mouth into an encouraging smile.

Helen Kline imagined that soliciting donations was similar to heading into battle. Outfits and attitude were crucial. The main difference was that the bloodshed in the business world was financial instead of physical. Here, a nice suit or a Louis Vuitton purse took the place of armor, while compliments and quick wits were the weapons of choice.

High-pitched stage whispers snagged her attention, and her smile widened as a frazzled teacher wearing glasses and a ponytail herded a horde of elementary-aged students in matching orange t-shirts down the hallway. So young now, but they grew so quickly. Some days, she could scarcely believe her own children were fully grown. All three of the boys were men now and had entered into safe, respectable professions with nary a fight.

It was only her headstrong daughter who’d rebelled against the more gentile life she’d envisioned for her offspring and insisted on courting danger at every turn.

A baby’s wail pulled Helen from her musings. She glanced at the antique, white-gold watch circling her wrist and frowned. Twenty minutes past the hour. Where on earth was Mr. Ray?

She scoured the faces of nearby patrons, but none matched the photograph Mr. Ray sent in his email. A brief trip through the closest gallery didn’t turn him up, either. With an impatient harrumph over his rather rude behavior, Helen dialed his number on her phone. The call went straight to an automated voice service.

Her mouth tightened before she remembered to relax her muscles. Frowning would only hurt