Read Weeping Angel for Free Online Page A

have done such a thing to her? They knew how she felt. They knew about . . . about what happened . . .
    Fresh tears brimmed her eyes and she fought them.
    Passing her fingertips under her lower lashes to make sure her face powder hadn’t smudged, Amelia turned on her heels to leave.
    The light of day blinded her as she hurried across Divine Street, thankful no one had milled around to speak with her. And even more thankful Mr. Brody wasn’t anywhere in sight.
    She heard a thumpity-thumpity coming from down the block. When she glanced in the direction of the noise, she saw the big crate with the New Americanupright parlor piano being rolled inside the Moon Rock Saloon’s double front doors.
    Her chest ached anew, and Amelia wanted nothing more than to go home, strip out of her clothes, slide to the bottom of her bathtub, and pull the cool water over her head to hide.

Chapter
3

    B y two-thirty in the morning, the candle-melting heat cooled to a temperature that would have kept a puddle of wax only lukewarm. The seductive breath of garden roses consorted with the scents of freshly watered vegetable gardens and lawns. The combinations milling through the air roamed sluggishly under and over the paneled, frosted cut glass doors of the Moon Rock Saloon.
    Frank lounged in a chair, his boot heels caught on a round table’s edge while he enjoyed a beer mug of 5-Star Hennessy cognac. Forgoing the handle, he slipped his hand around the fluted glass to warm the liquor with his right palm. Far from drinking fashion, he rebuffed the idea of a snifter; they were too ostentatious and too large. Their wide mouths allowed the bouquet to evaporate into the air, rather than his mouth. Savoring the taste, he indulged in his favorite drink. The mellow brandy capped off his long night as he listened to Pap O’Cleary romp through “Buffalo Gals” for the dozenth time.
    â€œCan’t you play anything else?” Frank asked betweenleisurely sips, growing tired of the song’s square-dance tempo.
    Pap didn’t miss a beat while shaking his derby-covered head. “Got this one under my skin,” he replied in tune to the music. “Under my skin . . . under my skin.”
    Frowning, Frank struck a match with his thumbnail and lit a cheroot. He brought the thin cigar to his lips, then inhaled. Exhaling a slow ribbon of white smoke as he spoke, he suggested, “Play ‘Sweet Betsy from Pike’ or ‘Down Went McGinty.’ Better yet, ‘A Hot Time in the Old Town.’ We did a damn hot business tonight.”
    â€œBest since we opened,” Pap agreed above the virgin-sounding chords he ravished from the New American upright parlor piano. “Oh, buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight and dance,” he sang in a deep-pitched voice, “by the light of the moon?” He abruptly stopped his jaunty playing and swiveled on the hardwood stool to face Frank. Meshing his fingers together and extending his arms, he cracked his joints. “Feels good to get the kinks out.”
    â€œFeels good just sitting here.”
    â€œYou always say that at closing time.” Pap stood to shuffle through his repertoire of sheet music on top of the piano. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was solid as a brick. Beneath his Danbury black derby, he was bald as a baby’s bottom, but made up for nature’s premature deficit by sporting a whopping red mustache.
    â€œI always mean it.” Frank took a pull on his square-tipped cigar. “The best part of the night is smelling what everybody else has done with their day. That fragrance of roses belongs to Narcissa Dodge. She pruned the bushes at sundown when that elm of hers shaded her planting beds. And the whiff of grass is coming from Doc White’s yard. He just mowed his lawn this afternoon. Watered it right after supper.” Frank tapped the ash off his cigar onto the floor.“Jakey Spivey