Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Read Free

back the tree. What was it, an apple?”
    “Plum,” said Willows. He was determined not to be charmed by her, angry at himself that he’d even noticed she was a woman.
    She went over the terms of the contract with him, the amount and type of advertising they had agreed on, her percentage of the sale price, how soon the purchasers could take possession. A black and white photograph and brief description of the property would appear in the following Thursday’s edition of the city’s West Side real estate guide. She asked him about open houses.
    “I hadn’t thought about it.”
    “They’re a nuisance, but necessary. I’m free a week Sunday, if that’s all right. The afternoon would be best.” She smiled. “Assuming we haven’t made a sale by then, of course.”
    “Okay, let’s make it Sunday afternoon.”
    She made a note in her calendar. “If I should get a hot prospect, how do you feel about me dropping by on the spur of the moment?”
    “Yeah, sure. Fine.” Willows, like all homicide detectives, was used to working long hours. He’d found that the best way to keep his mind off his domestic problems was to spend as much time as possible on the job. Lately, he was hardly home at all; the only rooms he used were the bedroom and kitchen. With only himself to clear up after, the house was easy to keep clean.
    “Would you like me to phone you first?”
    “You could try me here. If there’s no answer, go ahead and show them around.”
    “You’d prefer I didn’t call you at work?”
    “If you can avoid it.”
    “Okay, that’s about it.” She handed him her fountain pen. It was heavy — a solid gold Sheaffer. Her hands were slim, the skin pale. A red fingernail traced across the bottom of the sales contract. “If you could just sign there… and there.” A glossy strand of platinum-blonde hair fell across her cheek. Willows scrawled his signature. Why did he feel as if he was signing his life away?
    Celia Cambridge capped her pen and put it away in her black leather briefcase. Willows stood up, stretched, and went over to the fireplace. Sheila’s key was still where she’d left it, in an envelope on the mantel. He ripped the envelope in half, shook out the key and gave it to the agent.
    “Thank you.”
    Willows helped her on with her coat. Her perfume smelled faintly of lilacs.
    She paused at the door. “It isn’t very professional of me to say this, but I know this can’t be an easy time for you. If there’s anything I can do, I hope you’ll feel free to give me a call.”
    Willows opened the door. His breath plumed. A gust of wind chased a few dead leaves across the lawn.
    “Anything at all,” said the agent. She reached out and touched his arm, very lightly. “I’ve left one of my cards on the table. My home number’s on the back.”
    Willows nodded, managed a smile.
    Her heels clattered on the porch boards. He shut the door before she reached the bottom of the steps, worried that she might turn around, burden him with yet another dazzling smile. He leaned against the door until he heard the Mercedes start up and drive away, then walked down the hall to the kitchen. A bottle of Cutty Sark stood on the counter. He thought about having a drink, decided it was too early, and poured himself a cup of coffee.
    The pot had been on the warming plate all morning long. The coffee was strong, bitter — exactly suited to his mood. He went back into the dining room and sat down at the table and stared out at the backyard. A woman in an ankle-length fur coat walked by with two Samoyeds on a leash. Both dogs urinated on his pile of cuttings. The woman lit a cigarette, glanced up at the house. Willows stared at her until she looked away.
    After a little while, the silence of the house began to feel claustrophobic. He became aware of the soft click of the furnace switching on, the whisper of warm air in the vents, the low hum of the refrigerator, even a tiny buzzing sound that emanated from a lightbulb