Trophies Read Online Free

on a bit and let me
make a call."
    Within moments, Sherlock's gentle baritone
drawl answered. "Hey, Robbie. What's up?"
    "Morning, boss. I can't make the training
camp." The NATO Rapid Response team, of which I remained a member
by the skin of my teeth, was scheduled for a week-long session of
controlled mayhem beginning Saturday, two days away.
    "Why? What's happened?"
    At the question, an unexpected lump swelled
in my throat. Startled, I forced it away. I hadn't cried since the
age of eleven and had no intention of starting, not even now. "My
Aunt Edith was murdered last night."
    Sherlock paused. "Damn, Robbie, I'm
sorry."
    For a moment I stared into a yawning chasm:
the empty hole she'd left behind. I could not go there and ducked
aside into a factual report. "She was shot on the front steps of
the art gallery. She'd organized a showing for my nephew and they
were there late last night, finalizing things prior to the opening.
When they left, it seems someone was waiting. Aunt Edith was hit
three times in the lungs and died on the spot. The security guard
closing up behind them was shot in the back, but nowhere important,
so they say he'll be fine. My nephew took one in the stomach."
    Sherlock grunted, as if in sympathy. "How's
he doing?"
    "Last I heard, not good." I rubbed my eyes.
"The police told me not to leave town."
    The Taurus jerked forward then whipsawed
back, as if Patty had stiffened and her foot slipped from the
accelerator to the brake. The shoulder belt cut across my neck and
slammed me back against the seat. My sideways what-the-hell glare
met her apologetic one, she drove on, and I turned toward the
passenger's window. If she was going to drive like that, she didn't
need to hear the rest of this conversation.
    "Have they charged you with anything?"
Sherlock asked. Hopefully he hadn't noticed that little interlude,
but fooling him was amongst the most difficult jobs on the planet
and I wasn't sanguine.
    I lowered my voice. "No, but I am her
principal heir, I did help write her will, and I just happened to
be home alone last night, cleaning weapons — although I didn't tell
the police that little fact — so of course I have no alibi. That
will probably make me their prime suspect."
    "Humph," he said. "It's circumstantial stuff,
but it's pretty powerful. I'll call the Kraut and let him know." He
paused. "Call me if you need help. I mean that."
    We rang off. "You remember Sherlock," I said,
for something to say.
    "He's not exactly forgettable." But I could
see Patty's mind wasn't there. Some of her tension seemed to have
drained with the little driving mishap, or at least she no longer
tried to squeeze the steering wheel to jelly. "Why in the world
would anyone murder Aunt Edith? Anyone bigger than a ten-year-old
could push her over and rob her. And that security guard, and Trés
— he's only seventeen, and so talented. I don't think I can bear it
if he dies, too." Her voice became tighter and tighter as she
rambled, and at the end she sniffed.
    She turned off Brattle into the old
neighborhood where I'd grown up, swinging the Taurus wide into the
middle of the road. I scrunched my eyes closed and kept breathing;
it would be just my luck to survive the war and die on a
backstreet. "Has he inherited the family obstinacy?"
    "A fair dosage."
    "Then it will take more than one bullet to
kill him. And that wasn't a robbery. Aunt Edith's wedding ring was
still on her finger and her purse was found intact in her car."
    "A robbery gone wrong, then. But Charles,
Aunt Edith had her purse with her in the gallery last night before
I left. She took some aspirin and I saw her digging around in her
purse looking for the bottle. The detective said she was killed on
the sidewalk by the stairs, so how did her purse get in the car?"
She pulled into the driveway and parked in front of the house, then
dug in her shoulder bag, produced her cell phone, and punched
buttons. "I'm calling Dad. I want to know how Trés is doing."
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