A Lesson in Love and Murder Read Online Free Page A

Foul Play.
    He muttered in his first language, kicked a few overturned crates, and almost swept his typewriter from his desk to the floor. Then, immediately remorseful for the thought, he stroked the Underwood gently. Some nights it was his dearest friend.
    He stared at the telephone. Made to pick it up. Then remembered the service had been turned off at home. Poor Jem. What a husband he’d turned out to be.
    Jem deserved a stable home, matching dishes, and a happily-ever-after. But lately he’d been returning home to find her asleep fully clothed on the sofa in the front room, clearly waiting for him with a book open on her chest. If she had nicely set the table with flowers from their overrun garden and her one good lace tablecloth, it made him feel like a cad for days. What did he have to say for himself?
    Of course he loved her. Loved the way she set the pace for ironing out their little spats and misunderstandings, results of their whirlwind courtship and an uprooting of their two worlds they were trying to graft together. Sometimes the barrier between them seemed greater than one of language, but then she’d look up at him as if he was the force that pulled in her tide and spun her earth. He didn’t deserve any of it, really.
    He flipped open his pocket watch. He hadn’t noticed so much of the evening had ticked away with few words to show for his tired brain. He yawned and ran an open hand over his face, and then he focused his eyes on the picture inside. His sister, Viola, and his little nephew, Luca. His chest constricted as it did whenever he thought about her. When he worried about her. Was she cold? Did she havesomewhere to stay? Was her good-for-nothing husband, Tony, providing for her or just hitting her again? Did Luca have enough to eat?
    He grabbed his hat from the rack. When he started drifting into panic about Viola, he knew he would get no more work finished for the evening and it was time to head home.
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    * M.C. Wheaton, author of Guide to the Criminal and Commonplace, Merinda’s detection manual of choice.

C HAPTER T HREE

    A proper matron’s place is in the home, and she should devote her hours to its upkeep. It is her sphere and her haven. As such, she should commit to making it as habitable as she can: not only to ensure her husband’s comfort, but also for her own sense of personal pride and accomplishment. The best brands from the grocers, the sweetest smelling soaps and conditioners, are only a few ways in which she can transform her bower into a sort of garden.
    Flora Merriweather, Guide to Domestic Bliss
    J em fluttered about with a duster and then scrubbed at the dishes. She looked at her termination letter again and hugged her arms around herself. She brewed a pot of tea and held a steaming untouched cup to give her hands an occupation rather than trembling. So fixated was she on listening for Ray’s key to turn in the lock that she almost dropped her cup when it finally did.
    She straightened her back. She knew Ray would be tired. Probably in a horrible mood after a sleepless night the night before and from who knows what he had seen while pursuing his story.
    Ray came in and gave her a slight smile that stayed in his eyes rather than spreading across his mouth. Nonetheless, his eyes couldn’t help but flicker a bit when he saw her, even if his face was tired.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said by way of greeting. He leaned down and took her hand softly, turned it so her palm was facing up, and gave her alight kiss at the wrist. Then he sank into a chair without even removing his coat.
    â€œWhat are you sorry for?” She sipped her tea and offered him a cup that he refused.
    â€œI didn’t send any message.”
    â€œI saw the evening edition.” Jem brightened. “You did such a wonderful job! And those photographs Skip snapped made me think I was there. How did he get so close?”
    â€œI should’ve called,” Ray