Don't Cry Now Read Free Page A

theirs, although initially all she could see was Joan, fiery titian tresses falling in frenzied ripples around her ashen face, her wide mouth slightly agape and outlined by her trademark fluorescent orange lipstick, sable eyes milky with death.
    â€œWho’s been shot?” someone asked.
    Again the woman pointed, this time toward the kitchen. “My real estate agent. From Ellen Marx Realty.”
    Several faceless young men, wearing the white coats of medical personnel, rushed toward the back of the house. Ambulance attendants, no doubt, Bonnie concluded, strangely detached from the proceedings, this sudden detachment allowing her to absorb the details of what was happening. There were at least six new people in the house: the two paramedics; two uniformed police officers;a woman whose posture identified her as a police officer but who looked barely out of her teens; and a big man of about forty with bad skin and a gut that protruded over his belt who was obviously in charge and had followed the paramedics to the kitchen.
    â€œShe’s dead,” he announced upon returning. He was wearing a black-and-white-checkered sports jacket and a plain red tie. Bonnie noticed a pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt. “I’ve notified forensics. The medical examiner will be here soon.”
    Forensics, Bonnie repeated in her mind, wondering where such strange-sounding words came from.
    â€œI’m Captain Mahoney and this is Detective Kritzic.” He nodded toward the woman on his right. “Do you want to tell us what happened here?”
    â€œI came home…” Bonnie heard the owner of the house begin.
    â€œThis is your house?” Detective Kritzic asked.
    â€œYes. I’ve had it up for sale….”
    â€œName, please.”
    â€œWhat? Oh, Margaret Palmay.”
    Bonnie watched the woman police officer jot this information down in her notepad.
    â€œAnd you are…?”
    It took Bonnie an instant to realize Detective Kritzic was addressing her. “Bonnie Wheeler,” she stammered. “I’d like to call my husband.” Why had she said that? She hadn’t even realized she’d been thinking it.
    â€œYou can call your husband in a few minutes, Mrs. Wheeler,” Captain Mahoney told her. “We need to ask you a few questions first.”
    Bonnie nodded, understanding it was important to maintain a sense of order. Soon, people would be arriving with strange instruments and powders for measuring and testing, carrying video cameras and green body bags and yards of yellow tape with which to cordon off the area. Crime Scene. Do Not Cross . She knew the routine. She’d witnessed it often enough on television.
    â€œGo ahead, Mrs. Palmay,” Detective Kritzic directed gently. “You were saying you’ve had your house up for sale….”
    â€œSince the end of March. This was our first open house. She said she’d be out by one.”
    â€œSo, you have no way of knowing how many people went through the house this morning,” Captain Mahoney stated more than asked.
    â€œThere’s a guest book in the hall,” Bonnie offered, remembering the book beside the stack of fact sheets in the front foyer.
    The officers nodded toward each other, and Detective Kritzic, whom Bonnie now noticed had red hair almost the same shade as Joan’s, disappeared for several seconds, returning with the book in hand. A silent signal passed between the officers.
    â€œAnd when you came home…?”
    â€œI knew she was still here,” Margaret Palmay told them, “because her car was in the driveway, and I knew someone was with her because of the other car right behind hers. I had to park on the street. I would have waited until they left, but I had all these groceries, and some things that had to be put in the freezer before they melted.” She stopped, as if her mind had gone suddenly blank, and perhaps it had.
    She was a pretty