Something Different/Pepper's Way Read Free Page B

way.” She led him down the short carpeted hallway. A huge sunken den at the end of the hall boasted a brick fireplace, a beamed ceiling, and an open
L
-shaped staircase leading up to a loft. The furniture consisted of an off-white pit grouping with abundant cushions, a large projection television, and assorted tables and lamps.
    Gypsy stepped down into the den, set Corsair on the deep-pile carpet, and immediately headed for a corner that was either an afterthought to the beautiful room, someone’s idea of humor… or both.
    Chase followed slowly, staring in astonishment. The corner was partitioned off from the room by an eight-foot-tall bookcase, clearly made from odd pieces of lumber and sagging decidedly in every shelf. It was crammed to capacity. Within the “room” was a battered desk that had seen more mileage than Daisy; it was cluttered with papers, a couple of dog-eared dictionaries, stacks of carbon paper, and a few more unidentifiable items. A ten-year-old manual typewriter sat squarely in the middle of the clutter.
    “Your corner,” Chase murmured finally.
    “My corner,” Gypsy confirmed absently, scrabbling through a desk drawer.
    Chase wandered over to examine the bookshelf, uneasily aware that the giant Bucephalus was right beside him. Trying to ignore his escort, he scanned the titles of Gypsy’s books, becoming more and more puzzled. “I’ve never seen so many books on crime and criminology in my life. Don’t tell me you’re also a cop?”
    Still searching for the elusive insurance card, Gypsy answered vaguely, “No. Murder.” She looked up a moment later to find him staring at her with a peculiar expression, and elaborated dryly, “Murder
mysteries.
I write murder mysteries.”
    “
You?
Murder mysteries?”
    “I wouldn’t laugh if I were you. I know ninety-eight ways to kill someone, and all of them are painful.”
    Chase absorbed that for a moment. “Do your victims lose their insurance cards?” he asked gravely.
    “My victims are usually dead, so it doesn’t matter. Damn. It’s not here.”
    Chase was frowning. Then the frown abruptly cleared and he was staring at her in astonishment. “No wonder your name rang a bell! I’ve read some of your books.”
    “Did you enjoy them?” she asked him politely.
    “They were brilliant,” he replied slowly, still staring at her in surprise. “I couldn’t put them down.”
    Accustomed to the astonished reaction to her authorship, Gypsy smiled faintly and began to search through the clutter on her desk. “Don’t bother telling me that I don’t look like a writer,” she advised. “I’ve heard it many times. I’d like to know what a writer is supposed to look like,” she added in a reflective voice.
    Chase discovered that he had been absently petting Bucephalus and stopped, only to continue hastily when the dog growled deep in his throat. “Can’t you tell this monster to lie down somewhere?”
    “Tell him yourself. He knows the command.”
    “Lie down,” Chase said experimentally, and was immediately rewarded when the dog flopped down obediently. Stepping carefully around Bucephalus, Chase approached Gypsy and observed her unfruitful search. “Can’t find it?”
    Gypsy lifted a feather duster and peered beneath it. “It’s here somewhere,” she said irritably. “It has to be.”
    “You could offer me a cup of coffee while I wait,” he said reproachfully.
    “It isn’t Tuesday.”
    Chase thought that one over for a moment. No matter how many times he ran it through his mind, her meaning didn’t appear. “Is that supposed to make sense?”
    She looked up from her search long enough to note his puzzled expression. “I only fix coffee on Tuesday,” she explained.
    “Why?” he asked blankly.
    “It’s a long story.”
    “Please. This is one answer I have to hear.”
    Gypsy pulled a squeaky swivel chair out and sat down, beginning to search through the center drawer for a second time. “When I was little,” she told