A Line To Murder (A Puget Sound Mystery) Read Free

answering machine. Still no message from Isca.
    Nothing on Tuesday, either.
    Tuesday afternoon Janet, manager of the support staff—anyone who wasn’t a stockbroker—stopped by my desk. “Have you talked to Isca?”
    “Not since Friday.”
    A sense of something being wrong hounded my thoughts the rest of the day. At regular intervals, I dialed her number, letting the phone ring ridiculous amounts of time. Finally, just before leaving for the day, I called her ex-husband. “Andy, this is Mercedes, Isca’s coworker. How are you?”
    We’d met socially a few times before the divorce and occasionally afterward in the office. He seemed to be scrambling to identify me. Very irritating .
    “Fine.” He must have put a face to the name. “Fine. How are you?”
    “I’m fine. Listen, have you talked to Isca lately?”
    “No, why?”
    “I’m worried. She doesn’t answer her phone and hasn’t been to work. It’s not like her.”
    “Maybe she’s sick.”
    “Yes, but she hasn’t called in or anything. She always calls me to go in early and handle the phones if she can’t make it.”
    “Did you call Buckley—talk to her folks?”
    “No. If she’s not there, they’ll just get worried. This isn’t like her.”
    There was a long pause. “Well?”
    “I feel like I should go to her place and make sure she’s okay, but I don’t want to ask one of our coworkers to go over with me. Isca wouldn’t like it, and I don’t want to go alone. Can you meet me later at her house and see if she’s there, if she’s all right? She could have fallen or something.”
    “I don’t have a key.”
    “I do. What time do you get off work?”
    “Five, but I’ll have to see about daycare.”
    “Well, will you or won’t you?” What a jerk! It had always seemed to me Andy and Isca’s divorce came suspiciously close to his getting his master’s degree after Isca helped put him through school. He also had a habit of turning and walking away when I was talking.
    There was enormous reluctance in his voice. “Okay. About five thirty?”
    “That’d be swell. Thanks a lot. I wouldn’t have called if I weren’t really concerned. See you then.”
    Andy muttered something. I couldn’t catch the words, but there was no doubt about his tone of voice.
    Jeez! Hope I didn’t put you out! Lie. I hoped I had. He was so dang arrogant.
    Since Wall Street was in New York, West Coast brokerage houses kept East Coast hours. I worked the seven to three shift and clock-watched to get out on time. Overtime pay was rarely allowed. On the way home, I picked up some fresh dinner rolls. Dinner was a green salad, the rolls and decaf coffee—not as bad as it sounded. I loaded the salad with toppings and didn’t skimp on the dressing. A shower, clean shorts, a cotton shirt and sandals did wonders to counteract the humidity.
    On the way out, I remembered to grab my garbage. The cans were in the alley and when I lifted a lid, I nearly lost it. Some rotting chicken mixed with the moldy produce lying right on top was a vulture’s delight. Jeez, the can was emptied just three days ago and the stuff’s already gone into major decomposition. I gagged and let the lid slam shut.
    Hot didn’t begin to describe the inside of my car and I didn’t have air-conditioning. If Isca’s all right, I’ll quite frankly be pissed off at driving across town for nothing.

Chapter 2
     
     
     
    Isca lived across town in a small house that overlooked the recently-closed Asarco plant. She already had a good view of Commencement Bay and Vashon Island, but environmentalists had more or less forced the plant’s closing, and it was being demolished. After the sprawling facility was gone, her view would be even more sweeping. I turned the corner and pulled up to the curb behind a red Honda. Andy sat sideways with the car door open.
    No air-conditioning. I was surprised. The way Isca talked, her ex-husband liked amenities. He’d taken off his jacket and tie and sat reading