Read Mike Reuther - Return to Dead City for Free Online

foot in front of it.
    He couldn’t believe it. The eyes behind those glasses fluttered like the vertical hold on a television gone amuck.
    “You … you’re forcing me to call the authorities,” he sputtered.
    “Who is it Ronald?”
    It was the sharp-edged voice of a woman. Over Miller’s shoulder I barely caught a glance of her head from above his head poking around the staircase banister. The face quickly disappeared , and then I heard her footsteps coming down the stairs.
    “It’s nothing. Nothing at all,” Miller called back.
    And then she came into full view descending the carpeted staircase, a full-figured woman with a swan-like neck and flaming red hair. It was her. The society babe from the ball park.
    I leered a little too long as she came toward me. It would have been hard not to.
     
     
     
    Chapter 3
     
     
     
    She looked to be about thirty or thereabouts. But there was a kind of matronly grace about her. She didn’t walk down the steps so much as glide down them ‒ like someone coming to the door to greet guests arriving for a party. And in her yellow pants suit and white sandals and pearl earrings she was a woman who glowed. She damn well had the looks all right. I had a good inkling she was more woman than Miller could handle. And in more ways than one. Spotting me, her look turned hard. She brushed past Miller and in a determined stride came toward me. She stopped a few paces before me, her eyes boring in on me like drills.
    “What’s this all about?” she said in an accusing tone. She glanced from Miller back to me.
    “You’re Mrs. Miller?” I asked.
    “I am. And you are?”
    “Crager.”
    I stepped forward and stuck out my hand. She looked down at it like it was dog shit.
    Reluctantly, like picking up soiled rags from the floor, she lifted her hand toward me. The hand was cold. That’s when I caught sight of the wedding ring on her hand. It had to be the size of a baseball.
    “He’s a private investigator Reba,” Miller said, glancing nervously at his wife.
    “I guess it’s no secret why you’re here.” Those steely eyes held me for a few moments. Almond-shaped and hazel, they were eyes that didn’t miss anything. Reba Miller, I decided, was nobody’s fool. This was a woman who knew the rules and how to get exactly what she wanted. It’s funny how you can size up a person so well in a matter of moments. Eighteen years of police work can do that.
    “You may as well come in,” she shrugged. “I’ll make some coffee.”
    Her husband couldn’t believe it. He started to say something before moving aside to let me pass. I gave him a smile and stepped inside.
    I was struck first by the crystal chandelier hanging from a round skylight in the foyer. It sparkled from the sunlight bursting from above. On the one wall was a painting of horsemen in snooty English hunting outfits chasing down a fox. An archway led through the opposite wall into a high-ceilinged room. It was there that Miller led me.
    We sat at an angle from each other in high-backed chairs making small talk, mostly about some of the accouterments of the room. There were lots of trappings of the rich. I have to say that. I noted several paintings of a local artist named Dave Arbor which hung on the walls. Arbor had gained some national recognition painting scenes of the rolling countryside around Centre Town. He was supposed to be good, but I could never see it. Not that I had an eye for art but pictures of old barns and Mennonite women doing quilts just don’t do it for me. Miller said the pictures were originals. I was impressed with that. The guy had to have put out some bucks for them.
    His wife arrived with the coffee in a few minutes. The tray and the cups looked to be china. Everything matched, of course. I suddenly felt like I was at a damn tea party.
    Miller’s wife put the tray down on a glass coffee table and sat down in a love seat abutting her husband’s chair.
    “You’ll have to excuse us if we seem a