The Language of Death (A Darcy Sweet Coy Mystery) Read Free Page A

brooded.
    She still couldn't believe that Chloe was dead.  They had always made promises to get together again but with their different lives and the distance between them it had just never happened.  Now they would never get that chance.
    She came into Smithsville just before noon on Monday morning.  The place was a town just about the size of Misty Hollow, with houses lining narrow two-lane streets and hometown shops and trees and green lawns everywhere.  People walked dogs down the sidewalks and said hello to people they passed by.  Chloe's service would be tomorrow.  There was a little time to get settled in, but she wasn't here to sight-see.
    Chloe's mother had given her address to Darcy when they spoke on the phone.   With printed directions from the internet she made a right turn at the post office, then a left at the next stoplight.  On Wheeler Avenue she checked addresses until she found Forty-Five.  It was a low two-story home painted green with red trim, a happy looking place that seemed at odds with why Darcy was here.
    There were already several cars parked in the driveway.  Another was parked in front, up on the lawn, straddling the sidewalk.  She took the example and parked behind that one, putting her sister's car on a slant up on the curb, the tires on the one side settling on the sidewalk with a soft crunching sound.
    Taking a moment to build up her nerve, she gripped the steering wheel tightly and blew out a breath.  When she was ready she got out of the car and locked the doors behind her , going up to the front door at the end of the paving stone walkway.  She knocked tentatively, biting her lower lip.
    The woman who answered the door looked so much like Chloe that there was no mistaking her for anyone other than Chloe's mother.  Betsy Marrin had the same soft blue eyes as her daughter, wet now with tears.  Little laugh lines at the corners of those eyes showed her age.  Her golden brown hair was graying in streaks that zigzagged each other in a long braid.  This was Chloe's face, just thirty or so years older. 
    Her clothes looked like they had been selected with very little thought to them, black jeans and a red top that didn't match.  Darcy doubted that anyone would fault Betsy for that.  As she looked up at Darcy a smile smoothed away the wrinkles and lightened the shadows of her face.  "Darcy," she said.  "I'm so glad you could make it."
    She drew Darcy into a tight hug and Darcy could feel te ars stinging her own eyes.  "I wasn't sure you'd know who I was.  I'm sorry to intrude on you."
    "Nonsense!"   Betsy stepped back, wrapping her arms together.  "My daughter has shown me so many photos of the two of you together that I feel like you're part of the family.  Oh, the stories she's told me about your time at college.  No, dear, you'll always be welcome here."
    Darcy felt a lump forming in her throat.  It was exactly the sort of thing that Chloe would have said, and it reminded her of how much she would always miss her friend.
    "Please, come in," Betsy said to her, holding the door aside.  "There's people here you should meet."
    The entrance led directly into a small room lined with storage shelves and hooks where winter jackets sat forgotten in the warm weather.  An open entryway led to a living room.  This was a cozy space, not very large, with two couches that faced each other and then two easy chairs at the far end.  A doorway to the left led to what Darcy could see was a kitchen.  Everywhere the walls were painted either blue or green and sometimes a combination of both, and windows had their curtains pushed aside to let light in.  Betsy kept a tidy house, just as cheerful on the inside as it had looked from the street.
    There were five people sitting in the living room on couches or chairs, and every one of them turned to stare at Darcy as Betsy brought her in.  An older man with wispy gray hair and wrinkled clothes and a sour stare must be Chloe's dad, Darcy