Murder My Love Read Free Page B

Tobacco farms supported the economy of towns like Cromwell, Glastonbury and Colchester. Farming collapsed soon after Fidel Castro’s coup when commerce with Cuba ceased. The exquisite quality of Connecticut shade tobacco could no longer be exported to wrap Cuban cigars. Additionally, the clock factory that was once the pride of New England had been closed for decades as the digital age arrived. The royal typewriter factory closed with the arrival of the computer. The principle sources of employment that municipalities relied on for revenue disappeared. Farmers, blue-collar workers and tradesmen were forced to disperse, to seek employment elsewhere. The vacuum was partially replenished by insurance companies that opened regional offices to avail themselves of a labor pool desperate for work. The county courthouse became a bustling entity, as did the hospital and college. Lawyers, nurses, paralegals and secretaries became the backbone of the new economy. The transformation could be seen everywhere. Students, professionals, and professors were seen to enjoy lunch, shop and recreate in the dismal sea of brick. Yet the homes remained extraordinary examples of New England elegance. Many capes and Victorians had been restored to their former beauty, especially those situated in and around the college campus. Modern split-level homes, isolated as they were from the center of town, dotted the landscape and stood in stark contrast to well-maintained treasures. In the rural environs homes received somewhat less attention. Some were neglected altogether. The house at 172 Elm Street fell into the latter category. The hideous crime witnessed by the Chief at that house seemed to be out of character with the community she had adopted.
    When Abby left the crime scene, she resumed her role as wife and a mom, no longer Police Chief Abby Wilson. As she had done countless times, Abby entered her home and walked directly to her bedroom. She removed her weapon from its holster, checked that the safety was engaged, placed it in the locked drawer of her night table adjacent to her bed, hung her belt in the closet and walked out to greet her husband and children.
    “Hi, Mom! Where ya been?” cried the twelve year old, the younger of her two boys.
    “Had a little extra work today. Anyone hungry?”
    “I’m starved,” said the seventeen-year-old.
    “How about I call in for KFC? Or do you want Chinese tonight?”
    The tenor of her voice betrayed her. Sam, her husband of twenty years knew in an instant that she was not herself. He came up behind her, hugged her, and nuzzled his face in her neck by her ear. He murmured, “What’s up?”
    “I can’t tell you.” She turned to face him and hugged him tightly. She whispered to insulate her remarks from the children, “It’s fucking awful. That’s all I can say for now.”
    He kissed lightly, barely brushing her on her cheek. It was the kind of kiss they privately shared, one they called a butterfly kiss. The token of affection brought back fond memories of their early days together.
    Sam and Abby met when she had first been appointed to the Greenwich police force. They met at a party through mutual friends and immediately took to each other. Her intellect and good looks were not lost on Sam, who had graduated at the top of his class from Georgetown. He was earning six figures working for Barton and Boyles, an international brokerage firm. With that income the twenty five year old upstart was able to indulge her in a whirlwind romance. They dined in the finest restaurants; they attended plays and opera in New York City, traveling to and fro in a limousine, and vacationed in Paris. She recalled how he kissed her in the gilded elevator of the George V hotel, how they walked along the Champs-Elysees, how they skipped like children along the banks of the Seine and how he hugged her in front of the Notre Dame Cathedral and told her how much he loved her. She could not have conceived in her wildest