Cat on a Cold Tin Roof Read Free

balcony, right next to a telescope that had been attached to the railing, was the dead man.
    â€œWe hate to leave him like this,” said one of the detectives, “but the forensics guys asked us to keep the scene pristine until they got here.” He chuckled sardonically. “Pristine!” he repeated, shaking his head. “That tarp’s gonna collapse under the weight of the snow in another twenty minutes or so.”
    â€œSo where are they?” I asked.
    â€œSleeping, at least ’til we called them,” was the reply. “This isn’t Chicago, with three or four murders a day. I doubt we average as many as one a week.”
    â€œAs you can see,” Simmons said, pointing to the corpse, “all he’s got on is his robe, his pajamas, a pair of unbuckled boots, and an overcoat that he threw on to protect himself from the cold. According to his wife and his staff, he was an avid stargazer. There are two bullets in his back. Clearly the killer nailed him while he was looking at something, though what the hell he could see in this snowstorm is beyond me.”
    â€œAccording to the weather reports, it let up from one-thirty to almost two o’clock, sir,” said one of the uniformed men. “It’s up to the coroner to fix the time of death if he can, but it’s a fair guess that he came out during the pause in the storm to see if it was done or if there was more coming.”
    â€œMakes sense,” agreed Simmons. “I don’t know if it’s right, but it makes sense.”
    I looked for a long moment as the wind whipped across the balcony, then started getting very cold. “Okay,” I said, “I’ve seen him. I’ve seen the balcony. I’ve seen the bedroom. And I still don’t know what this has to do with me.”
    â€œTake a closer look,” said Simmons.
    â€œAt what?”
    He pointed to some small tracks around the corpse’s head, leading to the edge of the balcony.
    I looked and I shrugged. “Squirrel?” I suggested, but I knew that made no sense. Why would a squirrel leave the safety of a tree to leap onto an open balcony in a snowstorm?
    â€œCat,” said Simmons.
    â€œSo where is it?” I asked, looking around.
    â€œBeats the hell out of me.”
    I took another look at Pepperidge. There wasn’t much blood, but if the bullets had gone through him, gravity was probably pulling it out of the exit wounds. And if not, well, maybe he died instantly, the heart wasn’t pumping any blood after a few seconds, and it was pooled somewhere inside his body. I shrugged; it wasn’t my business anyway.
    Which reminded me that I did have some business to transact, no one had told me what it was yet, and I was freezing my ass off.
    I turned to Simmons. “Okay, you got a dead man. But you also got a bunch of cops and detectives, and probably more on the way, plus a top-notch forensics crew—so what am I here for?”
    â€œIt’s Mrs. Pepperidge,” replied Simmons.
    â€œOh?”
    He nodded. “She was playing in a bridge tournament all evening, and is the one who found the body.”
    â€œSo?”
    He smiled. “I think I’ll let her tell you.”
    â€œIs she in any condition to talk?” I asked. “I mean, she just lost her husband.”
    â€œTough broad,” said Simmons. “If I was a betting man . . .”
    â€œYou are,” I interrupted.
    â€œOnly on horses and football,” he answered. “Anyway, if I was inclined to bet on people, I’d say that she has a lot more in common with the Chicago Palantos than the Cincinnati Pepperidges.”
    â€œSomehow I don’t picture mob girls playing in bridge tournaments,” I said.
    â€œShe hasn’t been a girl in thirty years, and the tournament just shows that she’s good at adapting to her surroundings.”
    â€œOkay, she’s not a teenager, if she was ever a