Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle by Pauline Jones (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

Delaney stared at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. “She did warn us, you know. She said we didn’t speak Seymour.”

Mickey stared at the floor. “The Captain will have to take me off the case when he finds out Eddie’s a suspect.”

“Eddie’s not a suspect.”

“He will be. I’m going to make him a damn suspect.”

“If Eddie’s a suspect, so’s the Pope. Give it up.” He sat up and rubbed his face for a moment, then a look of determination replaced woe. “Instead of making up evidence, let’s figure out what we’ve got.”

“You know what we’ve got. We got nothing.”

“I’m not saying we got a lot, but there’s got to be something here.”

Mickey looked at him, his expression incredulous. “Like what?”

Delaney looked at his notes, then at the flat pencil, discarded them and picked up Mickey’s notebook. “Let’s look.” He looked down. Under Louise’s name Mickey had written: uncommunicative. His lips twitched. “So Louise didn’t say much. We’re supposed to look for non-verbal clues, too. What was your impression of her?”

“That she’s good at not giving non-verbal clues. Or any other kind of clues.”

Delaney grinned. “True. You think she might be protecting the old ladies?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey said, then added, “I did wonder if Boudreaux was. He seemed, I don’t know, more incoherent than he was with Luci. He wouldn’t meet our eyes.”

“Okay! Now we’re cooking!” He made a mark beside Boudreaux’s name, then looked up. Question marks don’t take long to make. “Anything else?”

“I say we pin it on Reggie and be done with it. He sounds like someone it’d be easy to pin something on.”

“Hey, works for me. How we go about it?”

Mickey paced across the room, then jerked the curtains back and stared out at the street.

Police activity was starting to wind down, thereby reducing press activity also, leaving only the terminally curious to hassle the uniform left to guard their crime scene. The harsh midday sun was beginning to soften to afternoon gold. A few streets away he could hear rush hour beginning to gear up. Somewhere, people were thinking of supper, evening TV, or hot dates. Somewhere there were people who could go to bed right now if they wanted.

None of those people were in this room.

“Any bright ideas?” Delaney asked.

“The last bright idea I had was—” He stopped, swiveling to face Delaney, an arrested expression on his face. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of her before?”

“Her? Who?”

“Gracie. The normal Seymour!”

Though both men had been awaiting her arrival, they didn’t hear Miss Grace Seymour come in, bringing a wave of fresh, cool air with her.

“Did you wish to speak to me?”

Like thirsty men in a desert, they turned towards the oasis of serenity she brought with her. About the same height as Luci, Grace exuded normality like a subdued perfume. Her light brown hair was pulled back from the plain lines of her face and bundled at the nape of her neck. She dressed simply, neatly, in a dress that was somewhere between blue and gray. Her eyes were calm and inquiring.

Delaney pulled out a chair for her, almost tripping over it in his hurry.

He must, Mickey realized, be more tired than he thought, because for a moment her profile wavered into near transparency before getting solid again. Or maybe it was this place getting to him. And them. He rubbed his eyes, trying to force them to wakefulness.

“Thank you,” she said, with merciful brevity. While the two men seated themselves, she watched them in comfortable refreshing silence.

“Miss Seymour—” Mickey began, because Delaney seemed content to just stare at her.

“Oh, please, call me Gracie.”

“Sure.” Anything she wanted. “This is my partner, Kevin Delaney. We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about the murder?”

She nodded, looked at Delaney and got caught in his rapt stare. Mickey grinned, cleared his throat and launched into their spiel, but it was pretty much a no-go. She didn’t know much more than the others. At least she let them know it with three words or less answers. Mickey could have cried with relief. The only time he felt cut adrift was when they got to Reggie.

“Yes, he lives in Cleveland. Business interests, I understand.”

“So we heard,” Mickey said. “Can you tell us a little more than that?”

“It’s hard to find more to tell about Seymour men, I’m afraid.”

“Could you try?” This from Delaney, whose expression bordered on fatuous. She cast him a shy glance, followed by an even shyer smile.

“All right.” She thought for a moment before speaking. “Well, they’re kind of stupid and inept, really. All of them. Their only real skill is this strange ability to persuade terrifyingly competent women to marry and take care of them.”

“Oh.” Mickey didn’t know what else to say.

“You know, you ought to talk to Velma. She lives next door and is hoping to be Mrs. Reggie. Of course, she thinks she’s psychic, but you mustn’t hold that against her. Otherwise she’s pretty sensible—or Reggie couldn’t, wouldn’t, look at her. It’s sort of a biological imperative.” She directed a grave, flickering smile at them.

“Oh.” Mickey looked at Delaney, but he was looking at Gracie, so he made a note. “Anything else you can tell us?”

“Well, you might want to talk to Unabelle.”

“I’d planned on it,” Mickey said. Shit. Was his uncle’s fiancée mixed up in a murder? “Anything in particular I should ask her?”

“I’m not really sure. I just think she—absorbs more information than she lets on. You’ll have to ask the right questions, of course, because I doubt she knows she knows anything. Be creative.”

“Creative? Great.” There was already too much creativity around here for Mickey’s taste.

Gracie smiled. “The girls are difficult, I know. Navigating the Seymour Zone is difficult for outsiders. We’re like curious children.”

The girls? Mickey had to smile at that. While he was smiling, she rose and glided to the door in a single, liquid movement.

“You’re not like that, Gracie,” Delaney said. “Why is that?”

She