Murder Brewed At Home (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 3) Read Online Free

correcting her grammar. I'm telling you: Kyle Young did not write this note. No way would a grammar snob let a split infinitive go. Especially in something so carefully-worded as a suicide note, if that's what this amounts to. Not when posterity is at stake."
                  He looked at the picture, then at me. "Are you sure?"
                  "Very."
                  He looked at it again, and then he looked up and out at the falling rain. Still watching the downpour, he said, "You don’t think Candace will mind if I stay?"
                  "Let's ask her."
     

Chapter 3              
                  We sat in Candace's living room, all sitting across from each other on facing sofas. Candace had already declined several times to be taken somewhere else.
                  "Where would I go?" she said, curling her legs up next to her and leaning heavily on the armrest.
                  "To my house," I offered. "Why not?"
                  "Last I heard," she said, "you didn't exactly have a lot of space. But maybe you shouldn’t listen to me. I guess I'm in what they call shock, aren’t I?"
                  "You could be," I said.
                  She stared off into space for a moment. "Upstairs," she said, "in the bathroom in my bedroom. In the medicine cabinet. I have Valium. Would you mind?"
                  "No," I said, "not at all." I turned to Lester, who had been sitting next to me. "Excuse me."
                  I went upstairs and found the pills. In the hallway, I glanced over at the office. The door was open. Padding over to it, I took a peek inside the room. All was in a bit of disarray from Lester and his men having swept the room for clues. There was still tape on the floor outlining the position of Kyle Young's body.
                  That was odd. If this was a suicide, wouldn’t Kyle Young make himself comfortable, as comfortable as can be under those circumstances? Wouldn’t he perhaps lie down on a couch or sit in a chair or something? And the fact that he didn’t bother to change his clothes rubbed me the wrong way. Surely if this really was suicide, he would have done some research into whatever method he was using in order to be as comfortable as possible.
                  I figured I'd spent enough time staring at this spot for now. I went back downstairs with Candace's pill and gave it to her.
                  She had a blanket wrapped around her. Lester could be a sweetheart like that.
                  "Thank you," she said softly. She took her pill with a glass of water she had on the coffee table before her, one she'd barely touched until now.
                  After taking the pill she again reclined against the armrest.
                  "I feel terrible," she said, closing her eyes.
                  I was a bit puzzled by this. "Why?"
                  "The night was ruined."
                  "What are you—?" I started to say when I felt Lester's hand on my arm. I looked at him and he shook his head slowly.
                  "It's ruined. The whole thing. The whole thing was ruined."
                  "Candace," I said gently, "you can’t be blaming yourself."
                  "Oh, but I do. I'm a terrible wife."
                  The drug was acting fast in her system. Her voice became airy.
                  "All he wanted was for me to become a good wife to him and I wasn't. I didn’t make enough money. I used poor grammar."
                  I leaned forward. Lester put his hand on my arm again and I lightly shook it off. "Don’t be that way, Candace."
                  "But it's true," she said in almost a whisper. "It's true... I..." She was drifting off to sleep.