Read The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) for Free Online

crammed down her throat.” He swallowed ice cream. “Each piece had a name and some numbers on it. Dollar amounts.” He licked the spoon. “Looked like betting slips.”
    Betting slips? Good God. I sat down, suddenly queasy, Nick’s words clanging in my head. Betting slips. She’d choked on betting slips. Oh, man. Not possible. Memories buzzed inside my skull, dangerous as angry bees. Betting had been my father’s true love, his mistress and passion. He’d bet on everything traditional—horses, cards, games, sports of all kinds. But he’d also make bets on random events. The date of the year’s first snowstorm. Whether or not passing strangers would return a smile. How many noodles were in a plate of spaghetti—and, to the nanny’s chagrin, he’d have me count them. My father would bet ten dollars on the length of the pastor’s sermon in church, or how many times his sermon would contain the word “evil.” Early in my childhood I’d been captivated and delighted by my father’s antics. He charmed and enchanted me, as he did many others. But gradually, my father’s endless gambling became less attractive. It had brought his downfall, and our family’s. And so, when I heard “betting slips,” I had to sit. There could be no coincidence. If there were betting slips in Beatrice’s throat, my father had to be involved somehow. Oh, God. What had my father gotten into? What had he done now?
    “She choked on betting slips?” My voice was a croak. “That’s what killed her?” In a way, I supposed that was good news; at least she hadn’t bled to death from a slit throat.
    “Looks that way.”
    But why would someone swallow betting slips? “Was she trying to get rid of them? Why wouldn’t she burn them? Or flush them down the toilet?”
    “Zoe.” Nick spoke slowly, patiently. “She didn’t swallow them on purpose. It’s a homicide. Somebody stuffed them down her throat.”
    Oh. Of course. Obviously. I pictured strong fingers, thrusting, forcing small tidbits into a moist gaping hole, recalled stuffing a Thanksgiving turkey.
    “Look, I can’t say any more about it. I shouldn’t even have said that.”
    Of course he shouldn’t have. It was amazing that he had. Nick revealed the absolute minimum about his work; less if possible. But why would someone kill Beatrice with betting slips? How was my father involved? Obviously, he had to be. Where there was gambling, my father couldn’t be far away. I knew I should tell Nick about my father’s history, but I hesitated, not ready yet to face the implications.
    “Anyhow, that’s pretty much all I know. Because, officially, I’m not involved in the case.” He dug out yet another spoonful of glistening ice cream. “My relationship with you gives me a conflict. But I’ll stay in the loop; keep my eye on him. Don’t worry.”
    His tone was kind but cool, almost professional. He hadn’t really touched me since he’d come home. Normally, Nick and I were physically magnetic, almost inseparable. What was going on? If he was hurt or angry, why didn’t he say so instead of being distant? Where were the questions about my secrecy, the resentment about my duplicity?
    I inhaled, remembering my speech, bracing myself to begin. “Nick—”
    “So, are you really feeling all right?” He cut me off, sliding a glistening ball of ice cream into his mouth. “You got pretty banged up today.”
    “I’m fine.” Why had I said that? Why couldn’t I admit I felt miserable?
    He watched me tenderly. “Good. I guess you look worse than you feel.”
    Did I? I had a blue-green lump on my head, stitches above my right eyebrow and a swollen red scratch on my chin, but did I look that bad? I hadn’t realized. I smoothed my hair back, lifted my shoulders, and watched ice cream glide through Nick’s lips. Rich and enticing, it offered soothing, cool comfort. I stared at his mouth, thought about how slippery it would be, how sweet it would taste. Stop it, I told myself.