Read MURDER on the ROCKS (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 2) for Free Online Page A

only shorter I guess."
                  "Would you happen to know his name?"
                  "Sure. Chaplin. Art Chaplin. No, Chapin! That's it. Art Chapin. Or was it Chaplin? Anyway, it was one of them."
                  Allie smiled genuinely. "Well, Mr..."
                  "Slivovitz, just like the liquor that tastes like a wall."
                  "Mr. Slivovitz, I can’t thank you enough."
                  "I trust I'll be reading my name in the paper soon?"
                  "That's up to my editors. Bye now."
                  Once outside, Del put a hand over her mouth. "Holy run-on sentences, Batman!"
                  "I liked him."
                  "I liked him too, but oh my."
                  "Ok, so we're looking for an Art Chapin/Chaplin."
                  "Shall we try Mr. Google?"
                  "We can, but it's getting late. I have to get home and give Dinah her shot."
                  Del smiled. "Having a diabetic cat sure gets in the way of ace criminal detection, doesn't it?"

8.
     
                  There was no Art Chapin or Art Chaplin or Arthur Chapin or Arthur Chaplin anywhere in Vermont.
                  However, she did find an Arthur Chapman who lived in Burlington. It made sense. Burlington. Easy access to the shoe store.             
                  The door opened and there stood a man of about five foot five, graying mustache, graying temples, and a face like a deflated soccer ball. Save for the mustache, he didn’t look a thing like Gomez Addams.
                  "Yeah?" said the man. He sounded as if he'd had a thirty-year relationship with the same cigarette, and that they no longer got along.
                  "Hi. Arthur Chapman?"
                  "Yeah."
                  "Hi, my name is Allie Griffin. Can I come in and talk to you for a minute?"
                  "What's this about?"
                  "It's about someone you knew. Honey Reilly? Unfortunately she was murdered a week ago and I wanted to know if you could answer some questions about her."
                  What little color was left in the man's face had drained from it. "Who are you?"
                  "Allie Grif—"
                  "No. Who are you? You a cop?"
                  "No, I'm a private citizen."
                  "How do you know Honey?"
                  "I didn’t really know her. But I know her husband, only slightly."
                  The graying man chewed on the inside of his cheek. "No. I'm not going to talk about Honey Reilly. Sorry."
                  He was about to close the door when Allie held up her hand. "Mr. Chapman!"
                  He stopped mid-close.
                  "I can see for whatever reason you don’t want to talk about this woman, and I'm fine with that. If you have secrets, I'm not interested in those. But I need your help. I know you delivered some shoes for her. If you don’t want to talk to me, ok. But I'm going to have to talk to someone ."
                  He chewed his cheek some more and breathed heavily through his nose. "I'll give you five minutes. Come in."
                  Art Chapman's home was built for a man who was five foot five and alone. The house was small and everything seemed within arm's reach of everything else. A three-person couch dominated the room – which looked to be the only room in the house – though she knew, logically, there had to be others. A crocheted blanket draped over the top of it looked like it may have seen some rough times at one point but was enjoying happy, if humdrum, retirement now. An easy chair sat brooding in the corner of the room, a bit