A Veiled Antiquity (Torie O'Shea Mysteries)

A Veiled Antiquity (Torie O'Shea Mysteries) Read Free Page A

Book: A Veiled Antiquity (Torie O'Shea Mysteries) Read Free
Author: Rett MacPherson
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yelled, but it did no good. All of my protestations turned into giggles and it’s damn hard to take somebody seriously when they’re giggling.
    We landed on the bed, him on top. I wrestled a hand free and gave him some of his own medicine. I counted his ribs, up and down and up and down, until I thought he’d get sick from laughing. I love it when men are ticklish. It’s so unmacho.
    “You have the most gorgeous green eyes, mademoiselle,” he said to me. I think he was trying to do a French accent, but somehow it sounded Hungarian. He jumped up off of the bed and took off running. I, of course, had to follow. He headed toward my office, which is the only other room upstairs, besides our bedroom and our bathroom. There we stood poised on the steps, him jabbing and I returning with jabs to his ribs. It was sort of like a sword fight without weapons. We circled each other, laughing.
    I had the advantage. His back was to the steps.
    “Okay, give up,” I said. “I have the advantage. You’ve got nowhere to go. No retreat.”
    “Never!” he yelled. “Death first!” he shouted. He laughed wildly and pretended to lose his balance.
    “If you think you’ll scare me, you’re sadly mistaken. I’ve been waiting for you to fall down a flight of stairs. That way I can be rid of you and it will be an accident,” I said through laughter. I was joking and he knew it. This was something we did on a fairly regular basis.
    This time it triggered something. Instead of the usual finale where we collapse on the bed, almost too tired for the sex we were playing at in the first place, I stopped.
    “What?” he said at my sudden soberness.
    “I can be rid of you and it will be an accident,” I repeated, almost to myself. “It will look like an accident.”
    “What?” he asked. He followed me as I headed back into the bedroom.
    “I’m beginning to wonder if Marie Dijon’s death was really an accident.”
    “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” he yelled. “You ruined my afternoon roll in the hay for that?” He was truly exasperated.
    “I’m serious. She could have been pushed down those steps and nobody would ever know the difference.”
    “That includes you,” he said.
    I stuck my tongue out at him. I hate it when Rudy scores a point. “Okay, let me rephrase that. Nobody would know the difference, because nobody was looking for it. If I told the sheriff…”
    “What?” he asked. “That you and your husband were tickling each other to death when you suddenly decided that Marie could have been pushed? Why? Why would somebody push her?”
    “I don’t know, but I just don’t like the thought of somebody’s life coming to an end because they tripped over their own house slipper or something.”
    “So you’d rather they be murdered? Oh, now that’s a more comforting thought.”
    I suppose when put like that, it was rather ridiculous.
    “All right, you win,” I said. “But I do have to get to work.”
    “No.”
    “No, what?”
    “I never win. Especially not that easily. You could keep arguing until the cows come home. What gives?” he asked.
    “Nothing. You win,” I said. “I was just being ridiculous.”
    *   *   *
    I was seated at the desk of my office in the Gaheimer House on Jefferson Street. The New Kassel Historical Society office and general headquarters are located at the Gaheimer House. The president is one Sylvia Pershing. She’s about ninety-four. Nobody knows her exact age because nobody has asked her. She will never die simply because she’s too mean. It’s one of those situations where God won’t have her and hell is afraid she’ll take over.
    The vice president of the historical society is her sister Wilma, who is for the most part Sylvia’s exact opposite. She’s quiet, happy, and remarkably prudish. Neither have ever been married.
    Sylvia now owns the Gaheimer House, one of several historic homes in our town built by an early settler named Hermann Gaheimer. I’m not sure what my role

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