Read How to Murder a Millionaire for Free Online

from the kitchen in a series of tight turns. The first landing opened out onto the old carriage house yard—a perfect escape to the outdoors for anyone playing tag.
    Standing in the doorway of the landing was Sam, one of Jill Mascione's lunkhead brothers. He was smoking a cigarette, taking a break from washing dishes. "Hey, Nora."
    "Hi, Sam. What's new?"
    "Nuthin'." He pointed his cigarette at the cobblestone driveway, where we could see the taillights of a vehicle disappear down the rear drive. "People are starting to get bored and head home. Where you going?"
    "Up to see Rory."
    I kept going up the staircase and at last stepped into the main corridor on the second floor. The housekeeper's rooms lay to the left, situated over the kitchen. To the right and several yards down the corridor, Rory's study door was open and light spilled out onto the carpet and polished mahogany floor. Music from downstairs floated up the staircase and seemed to fill the space. "Take Five." I could smell Sam's cigarette, too.
    "Rory?" I poked my head into the study and raised my voice over the Brubeck tune. "Rory, are you here?"
    No answer.
    I looked across the room at the beautifully lit painting on the wall. A small van Gogh. My breath caught in my throat at its beauty. I could see why Rory chose to live with it in his favorite room. The colors glowed with life, as if warmed by a constant summer Aries sun.
    But it was slightly askew on the wall. I couldn't help myself. I went over and straightened it with one careful forefinger.
    The dark paneled study had a pair of plush leather chairs pulled up to a sturdy coffee table with books and papers heaped on it. On another wall two fishing rods were crossed like swords over a framed photo of Rory with a sailfish. I could imagine him sitting in the leather chair wrapped in his green cardigan, floor lamp pulled close so he could read and conduct his business in comfort while enjoying his memories and his van Gogh.
    But Rory was nowhere to be seen at the moment.
    A small man's dress shoe lay in the middle of the floor, as if kicked off and abandoned. I smiled and shook my head. A lifelong bachelor who'd been looked after by a valet since his teens didn't feel the need to pick up his shoes, I supposed.
    The door to the adjoining dressing room was open, so I tiptoed over, glasses in hand. "Rory?"
    I leaned inside. "Are you here?"
    His suits and trousers hung in neat rows, surrounded by panels of cedar. Rory was a little man—petite, really—and his dressing room seemed like the playhouse of a wealthy Edwardian child. Crisp dress shirts lined the opposite wall, each hanger perfectly spaced two inches from its neighbor. A jewel-box-like cabinet stood open to reveal carefully stored silk ties, arranged by color. A tufted chair stood in the middle of the room, the perfect seat for a gentleman pulling on his socks.
    Rory's bedroom lay through the open double doors to my right. I hesitated in the doorway, not wanting to intrude. "Rory?"
    I don't know why I took another step. But suddenly I was in his bedroom and looking down at the crumpled figure on the floor. A small man, on his back, head twisted. His legs were splayed, one shoeless foot bent crookedly. A prescription bottle lay inches from his motionless hand—blue tablets scattered.
    "Oh, God."
    The next seconds whirled. I called his name. A moment later I was stepping over a pillow and went down on the carpet beside him. I must have dropped the champagne glasses because I used both hands to unbutton his shirt, already torn from his neck, to press his chest, to feel his papery throat for a pulse, to hold his head, saying stupid things, I know, but talking, talking, talking.
    A heart attack? A stroke?
    I pulled him into my lap and held him tightly, trying nonsensically to will him back to life. His face was smooth, weirdly young again, all personality dissipated. His boneless body was so light, his face so cool that I knew he was utterly gone.
    As if a