A Killing Spring Read Free

woman who welcomed surprises. “I was expecting the caterers. Some people are dropping in before Tom Kelsoe’s book launch, and I’m on a tight schedule, so, of course, I’ve had nothing but interruptions.” She smoothed her lacquered cap of silver-blond hair and looked levelly at Alex and me. She had given us our cue. It was up to us to pick it up and make our exit.
    “Julie, can we come in out of the rain?” I asked.
    “Sorry,” she said, and she stepped aside. She gave us one of her quick, dimpled smiles. “Now, I’m warning you, I don’t have much time to visit.”
    Alex’s voice was gentle. “This isn’t exactly a visit, Mrs. Gallagher. We have some bad news.”
    “It’s about Reed,” I said.
    Her dark eyes darted from me to Alex. “What’s he done?”
    “Julie, he’s dead.” I said. “I’m so very sorry.”
    The words hung in the air between us, heavy and stupid. The colour drained from Julie’s face; then, without a word, she disappeared into the living room.
    Alex turned to me. “You’d better get out of that wet coat,” he said. “It looks like we’re going to be here for a while.”
    From the appearance of the living room, Julie’s plans had gone well beyond some people dropping in. Half a dozen round tables covered with green-and-white checked cloths had been set up at the far end of the room. At the centre of each table was a pot of shamrocks in a white wicker basket with an emerald bow on its handle. It was all very festive, and it was all very sad. Less than an hour before, Kellee Savage had sobbed that her twenty-first birthday was turning out to be the worst day of her life. It was hard to think of two members of the sisterhood of women who had less in common than Reed Gallagher’s new widow and the awkward and lonely Kellee Savage, but they shared somethingnow: as long as they lived, they would both remember this St. Patrick’s Day as a day edged in black.
    Julie was standing near the front window, staring into an oversized aquarium. When I followed the line of her vision I spotted an angelfish, gold and lapis lazuli, gliding elegantly through a tiny reef of coral.
    Julie was unnaturally still, and when I touched her hand, it was icy. “Can I get you a sweater?” I asked. “Or a cup of tea?”
    She didn’t acknowledge my presence. I was close enough to smell her perfume and hear her breathing, but Julie Evanson-Gallagher was as remote from me as the lost continent of Atlantis. Outside, storm clouds hurled themselves across the sky, wind pummelled the young trees on the lawn, and rain cankered the snow piled beside the walk. But in the silent and timeless world of the aquarium, all was serene. I understood why Julie was willing herself into the peace of that watery kingdom; what I didn’t understand was how I could pull her back.
    Alex was behind us. Suddenly, he leaned forward. “Look,” he whispered. “There, coming out from the coral. Lionfish – a pair of them.” For a few moments, the three of us were silent, watching. Then Alex said, “They’re amazing, Julie.”
    They were amazing: large, regal, and as dazzlingly patterned as a bolt of cloth in a street market in Jakarta. They were also menacing. Spines radiated like sunbursts off their sleek bodies and, as they drifted towards us, I instinctively stepped back.
    “They’re my favourites,” Julie said.
    “Have you ever been stung?” Alex asked.
    Julie dimpled. “Oh yes, but I don’t care. They’re so beautiful they’re worth it. Reed doesn’t like them. He wants a dog. Imagine,” she said, “a dog.” For a moment, she was silent. Then she said, “Was he alone?”
    It seemed an odd first question, but Alex was unruffled. “He was when the landlady found him.”
    Julie flinched. “Where was he?”
    “At a rooming house on Scarth Street.”
    “I want to see him,” she said. Her voice was lifeless.
    “If you want, I’ll take you to him,” Alex said. “But I need to know some things first.