Murder Among the Angels Read Free Page B

of the murderer of her costar in a play at Broadway’s Morosco Theatre, had invited her to the spa to investigate what she thought was an attempt to sabotage her business. Jerry was then working at the spa as a trainer after being forced to retire on a disability pension from his position as a detective with Manhattan Homicide after losing half an inch from the tip of his trigger finger in a shoot-out. When guests at the spa started mysteriously dying off in the mineral water baths, Jerry had sought Charlotte’s assistance in figuring out who the culprit was. Although they saw one another infrequently, Charlotte and Jerry had stayed in touch via telephone. Having tired a number of years ago of serving as majordomo to a bunch of overweight middle-aged women, Jerry had traded in his spa job for a brief stint as a private investigator before getting back into police work, and was now the chief of police in Zion Hill, which also happened to be the town in which Dr. Louria’s home and office were located.
    Jerry, whose degree of reverence for good food approximated Charlotte’s own (his excuse was being Italian; she had none), had promised her a fine meal at a local bistro that had been awarded three stars from a New York Times reviewer, and it was on the prospect of a good meal rather than her visit with Dr. Louria that she concentrated her attentions as she passed a sign welcoming her to Zion Hill. A short distance past the sign, she turned left onto the Zion Hill Road and followed it down toward the river through a residential neighborhood of gracious old homes. At the foot of the Zion Hill Road, she turned left onto River Road, which was lined with enormous houses with magnificent views of the river, over which a luminous morning mist still hung. Dr. Louria lived at number 300, a stone mansion in the medieval style, with a massive tower overlooking the river. After parking in a small parking area, she passed through a door in a stone wall that bore a brass plaque with Dr. Louria’s name, and walked along a stone-paved path through a shade garden to a smaller building, also in the medieval style. Opening an arched door with a beautiful hand-tooled metal handle, she found herself in a waiting room that was painted off-white and decorated with paintings by well-known abstract expressionists that she recognized, as the result of having once been married to a collector of modern art, as being extremely valuable.
    The waiting room was occupied by one other patient, a young woman with long, light brown hair who looked as if she’d been the victim of a beating. Her eyes were blackened and bloodshot, her nose was bandaged, and her lips were swollen and cracked. The color of her mottled skin covered most of the hues in the chartreuse and magenta ranges of the palette.
    “He’s not here yet,” the young woman said with an attempt at a smile in which only the corners of her eyes crinkled.
    “I’m early,” she said. Was this what she was in for? Charlotte wondered apprehensively as she took a seat next to the young woman in one of the chrome and leather chairs that were lined up against one wall.
    “So am I,” the young woman said. Turning toward Charlotte, she stared at her as if she were trying to figure out where it was that she had seen her before. Charlotte didn’t bother to assist her memory.
    The young woman extended her hand. “I’m Melinda Myer,” she said.
    Charlotte responded in kind. “Mrs. Lundstrom,” she said, using the name of her fourth and last husband, the art collector. She wondered if the young woman was also a celebrity, but doubted it.
    “Have you been here before?” the young woman asked.
    “No,” Charlotte replied.
    “You’ll like him,” the young woman assured her. “He’s very nice. And he does wonderful work. Don’t be put off by this,” she added, waving a hand at her face. “By next week the swelling and bruises will be gone.”
    Had this young woman been through this more than