Death hits the fan Read Online Free

looked a little more relaxed now. Ivan liked to gossip. Maybe that was how I could help, engaging Ivan in his favorite pastime. Well, second favorite, next to reading. He had to be shaken, an author dying in his bookstore. An author who had called out my name. An author who— I wouldn't think about that, I told myself.
    "And what about Mr. Qua—" I began.
    But the voluptuous woman in the Mao pajamas rose from her chair, pushing it back emphatically and loudly, before I could finish my question.
    "Can't be," she stated brusquely. "Let me help, she can't be dead." She looked toward Lou.
    Lou just stared back at her, then shrugged.
    For a breath, she stood there, straight and tall, her head still turned toward Lou. All I could see from behind her was her large, lush body, and her salt-and-pepper hair in a French roll held together with carved ivory pins.
    The store heater let out another roar of hot air, and the woman marched forward to kneel by Shayla's body, taking the author's pulse, but differently than the two others who'd preceded her. Gently, she felt Shayla's right wrist at three places. And then her left wrist. She even felt Shayla's abdomen. Finally, she frowned and rubbed her own thumb against her forefinger before standing again and straightening her spine.
    "Can't be," she repeated, but more quietly now, as if to herself. She tapped her heels on the floor and turned back to-

    ward Ivan. She was a lovely woman with creamy white skin and large, hazel eyes. Large, worried hazel eyes.
    "Phyllis Oberman, she's an acupuncturist," Ivan whispered to me. "She's into romances."
    I felt a hand on my arm and whirled around, my heart pounding louder than the rain on the roof. But the hand was Wayne's.
    "Sorry," he said.
    I took his hand and squeezed it in a not-guilty verdict.
    "Made the calls," he added tersely.
    "Thanks," Ivan whispered and sighed.
    PMP echoed his sigh and we stood listening to the mixture of rain, heat, weeping, and the distant hum of traffic.
    "The bracelet!" Yvette exclaimed and the symphony of sound was shattered.
    She bent over, her fingertips almost touching the jewels gleaming around Shayla's wrist.
    But Lou leapt in front of his wife, blocking her, lifting her back into a standing position.
    He whispered something to Yvette, something I couldn't hear. But I could hear Yvette's comeback clearly enough.
    "Poisoned?" she sang out. "So, you think Shayla was poisoned?"
    "I sincerely hope not, but—" Lou stopped mid-sentence. "Yvette, keep out of this, please."
    Yvette looked around, eyeing each of us in turn. Did she think we were suspects in one of her books? Had Shayla been poisoned? Murdered? A familiar sick feeling began in my stomach and climbed into my chest. Please, I thought. Please, not another murder.
    "Who put the bracelet there?" Yvette demanded, hands on her tiny hips.
    But no one answered her. Not even PMP.
    "Honey, no one's going to 4 fess up,'" Lou told her, his words coming faster now. "This is no prank—"

    "Someone must have seen something," she insisted, patting his arm as if he was her size and she was his. His tall, well-built body was beginning to vibrate with frustration. I knew the phenomenon well, having observed Wayne in the same state more than once.
    "Did anyone see who put the bracelet on the table?" Yvette plowed on.
    Suddenly I didn't feel cold anymore. I was beginning to feel unbearably hot. I felt sweat bead on my brow and wondered if I looked guilty. And wondered once again why Shayla had called my name.
    "Perhaps we should all sit down," Ivan suggested. "A moment of harmony—"
    "No." Yvette cut him off without a glance. "Someone must have seen something. And once the fu-fuddin' police get here, we won't be able to share what we know. If Shayla was murdered—"
    "Maybe she just had a heart attack," Lou interjected reasonably.
    The shrill sound of a nearby siren seemed to spur Yvette on.
    "Maybe, maybe," Yvette conceded, speaking more quickly. "But maybe not. And we