The Next Wife by Kaira Rouda (speld decodable readers txt) 📕

fast. He’d missed his chance to admit that Darleen had asked him for money.

“Mr. Brossard,” I said at length. “Did Darleen Hicks ever ask you for money?”

“Of course not,” he said. “Do you think I would have anything to do with a wretched abortion? Do you think I would risk my soul for a girl in braces? For anything in the world?”

“I really don’t know,” I said.

“That’s enough for one night,” he said curtly. “Good night, Miss Stone.”

I replaced the receiver and fished for some more change in my purse. In my time in New Holland, I had built up a fair list of contacts and phone numbers. Fred Peruso, county coroner, was one of them. I slipped another dime into the slot and dialed his number, reading it from my address book in the pale light of the phone booth.

“Sorry to bother you at this hour, Fred,” I said once I’d identified myself. “I know it’s late.”

“It’s only ten,” he said. “I was just having a drink and a cigar. What do you take me for? Your grandmother?”

“Okay, sorry to interrupt your post-prandial indulgences,” I said. “Listen, I need you to check for something in the autopsy tomorrow.”

There was a pause down the line. “Really? Like what?”

“I think Darleen Hicks was pregnant. Can you check for that?”

Fred laughed. “That’s pretty routine,” he said. “I thought you were going to ask me to look for something I might miss, like a bullet hole in her head or a knife wound in her chest.”

I blushed. Was a pregnancy obvious to see in a postmortem? But I didn’t have time to be embarrassed about my ignorance. I just thanked him and made a date to meet him at the hospital the following morning at eleven.

“Say, what makes you think a fifteen-year-old girl was pregnant?” he asked before I could hang up.

“Just covering the bases,” I said.

It was a little past ten when I arrived home. The street was filled with loitering teens, and Fiorello’s was jammed as usual on a Saturday night. I headed straight upstairs to jot down some notes that had occurred to me in the car. After that, I made a sandwich under the broiler: baked beans from a half-empty can with a slice of cheese on top. I burned it a little black, but I like it that way. I added a pickle and a couple of gin-soaked olives that I kept in a jar in the icebox. I liked the taste of olives and gin, but didn’t trust myself drinking Martinis anymore; one too many mornings with no recollection of the night before. My gentlemanly Dewar’s has never taken advantage of me that way.

I carried my dinner into the parlor, kicked off my heels, and sank into the sofa. I switched on the television in time to see the sign-off of the fights, and bowling was up next. Not interested in that. No wonder I hadn’t been able to snow Paulie Iavarone earlier in the day.

I switched off the set and put on some music instead. I was in the mood for Brahms and put on his second piano concerto, enjoyed my burnt remains and olives, and rinsed it all down with a glass of whiskey.

I got up to pour a second drink then remembered I needed to wash some underthings in the bathroom sink if I wanted to dress fully come morning. Five minutes later, I retrieved my drink from the kitchen table, uttered a brief scream, and dropped my glass, which bounced and pitched its contents across the room, but somehow didn’t shatter. There before me, looking cold, miserable, and starving, stood Joey Figlio. He was breathing hard, staring daggers into my eyes, and holding one in his hand. Or quite nearly. While I was otherwise occupied in the bathroom washing my unmentionables, he had broken in and armed himself with one of my longer carving knives.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “Get out now.”

“I can’t go,” he said, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “The cops are looking for me. Almost caught me this afternoon.”

“Too bad they didn’t shoot you.”

“I need a place to sleep tonight. I’ll stay here.”

“You will not stay here,” I said.

“Can you make me something to eat? I smell something good.”

“You’re not staying here. Get out.”

“Is that liquor good? I want to try some,” he said, pointing with the carving knife to the bottle of Dewar’s on the table.

“It’s very mild,” I said, changing my tune. Was I too obvious? “Let me make you a drink.”

I grabbed a tumbler and a couple of ice cubes from the freezer. Then I filled the glass to the brim with whiskey.

“I’m real hungry,” he said, taking the glass from me. “Cook me something quick, will you?”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll give you something to eat, and then you’ll leave, right?”

Joey didn’t answer. Still holding on to the knife, he pulled one of the chairs away from the table and positioned it for an optimal view of the stove. Clearly he didn’t trust me. I pulled bacon and eggs and butter from the icebox, and Joey sat down. He took a sip of the whiskey and grimaced. Then noticing that I was watching him, he steeled himself and took a large gulp that nearly made him vomit. He coughed a bit but held it down. I lit the stove.

A few minutes later, the bacon was sizzling in the skillet, and Joey looked ready to nod off. He hadn’t finished his drink, and I was afraid he had no intention of doing so. I asked if he minded if I poured myself a new one.

“I don’t know how you can drink this stuff, but go ahead,” he said. “And you should mop up the one you spilled, too.”

I muttered under my breath, but ended up on my hands and knees with a sponge and rag, wiping up the whiskey. Once I’d finished, I poured myself a drink and cheered