Art and Arsenic (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 2) Read Free Page B

the host happened to get himself murdered during the evening, and I played a role in finding the killer). Vinay’s start-up, like many companies in the Seattle area, had season tickets to the Sounders home games.  We had originally planned to go to the game with several of his employees. But on Thursday, he got stuck at work at the last minute, together with pretty much everyone at his tech company, dealing with a problematic production release – so the ticket waiting at the stadium was just for me.
     
    I enjoyed soccer ever since I was a kid. I had fond memories of attending some Champions League matches with my dad in Europe, and over the years I had watched teams like Barcelona, Chelsea and Manchester United play live. I fancied myself a bit of a connoisseur of the game, and liked dissecting the technique and strategy of matches with like-minded friends.
     
    Columns of fans were streaming into the stadium through each gate – Seattle regularly has the highest-attended soccer games in the US league, with crowds frequently topping 30 000. A lot of people were wearing green and blue – the team’s colors, – or had team scarves with “Sounders” on them in big letters. Many had brought their kids. I basked in the pre-game atmosphere of noise and anticipation.
     
    My seat was in the lower levels, and I could see the entire field very well. I noticed a group of hard-core supporters of the Sounders, already in their usual place behind one of the goals, their faces painted green and blue, waving a team flag, beating a drum and chanting a rousing Sounders chant. A couple of seats on each side of me were empty – these were the seats that Vinay and his colleagues would be occupying if they could get away from work. I texted Vinay to thank him again for the ticket, and settled in to watch the game.
     
    At 7:30, the dusk was gathering, but the bright lights above the stadium made the surroundings look dark. The anthem played, confetti shot out of a cannon and the game started.
     
    Tonight’s game was a friendly against an LA team.  For the next forty-five minutes, my attention was on the pitch. I was jumping up in anticipation when Sounders were close to scoring a goal, yelling in disappointment when they lost possession of the ball or their pass went wide, was on the edge of my seat when the other side had control of the ball and went on attack.
     
    By the end of the first period, the score was 1-1, and I had thoroughly enjoyed myself. Now I noticed that the spring air had gotten chillier. I drew my coat around my shoulders and got up to stretch and walk around. I bought a bottle of water and was coming back to my seat when, standing at the top of the stairs, I saw a familiar-seeming figure a couple of rows down and to my left.
     
    The man looked around, and I saw his face in profile. It was Alex. I recognized him from earlier in the day, since his conversation with Fred Nordqvist stuck in my mind. With him was a blond woman of about 50, wrapped up in a green waterproof hiking jacket, and they seemed to be involved in intense conversation, their heads close together. They didn’t notice me, and I didn’t think Alex would recognize me in any case, since he barely saw me that afternoon, and never spoke to me specifically. I headed down and stairs and back to my seat.
     
    The next 45 minutes flew by with more jumping up, chanting by the fans when the audience interest seemed to wane, two more goals (one a beauty from a corner kick), and the final score a draw, 2-2. On the way out, in the noisy crowd discussing each of the goals while making our way slowly out of the stadium, I didn’t see either Alex or the woman with him.
     
    Walking out into the chilly night air, I got to my car, fought the traffic all the way across the bridge, and finally arrived home.
     
    Bitty demanded another dinner as soon as I got back. According to her, every time I walked through the front door was an occasion that called for a