Murder on Old Main Street (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Read Online Free
Author: Judith Ivie
hemline, the hands balancing her teacup in her lap were distinctly human, unlike the knotted straw ones of her companions. The skin, though bluish in tint, looked absolutely real as did the nails, which were both dirty and broken. While it was as gray as the others, her hair was clumped hastily around a few mismatched rollers in contrast to her neatly-set seatmate. Perhaps most alarmingly, her head drooped forward to rest against the front of the dryer, hiding most of her face.
Very deliberately, Emma placed her bag on the sidewalk and came to stand next to me. I didn’t want to, but I put a bracing hand against the woman’s right shoulder as Emma tipped the dryer hood up and back. The full weight of the upper body sagged against me, and Emma pushed on the left shoulder to help me sit blue-dress lady upright. Wearing her habitual dour expression and a slash of duct tape over her mouth, Prudence Crane sat before us, no longer among the missing, and very dead.
“Guess we’d better let Abby know that Prudy won’t be coming in today,” Emma commented matter-of-factly. She dug her cell phone out of her pocket and looked at it blankly. Then she sat down hard on the curb.
Two
After taking a few deep breaths apiece, Emma and I realized that our gruesome discovery had gone unnoticed by the few pedestrians on the street. A block away on the other side of the street, a cluster of small boys labored on their entry in the scarecrow competition, which, judging from the outdated uniform, spectacles and odd hat, seemed to a scout leader circa 1950. Other than Miriam Drinkwater, who was letting herself into the Keeney Memorial a block farther down for her morning shift as volunteer tour guide, the only citizens to be seen at this hour were scurrying from their parked cars into the diner and back. Rather than risk pandemonium by going back inside and calling for help, we used Emma’s cell phone to place a 911 call to the Wethersfield Police Department. Even though we made it clear that poor Prudy was beyond medical help, we braced ourselves for the inevitable rush of emergency vehicles that would arrive in conjunction with the official investigation that had been set into motion with our call.
I also knew that the dozens of private citizens who monitored police calls via scanners in their homes would ensure a crowd of gawkers on the scene very soon, so time was of the essence if the crime scene were to be preserved. And finally, the next person who came out of the diner would be certain to get the bare facts, then hustle back inside, bristling with self-importance, to take center stage as The First Person to Know About the Murder. The only question was, who would it be?
The answer wasn’t long in coming. No sooner did our ears pick up the wail of approaching sirens than Mavis Griswold, the Methodist minister’s wife, appeared from the direction of the diner. She came up behind us where we sat on the curb and paused as it became evident that the emergency vehicles were converging at the place where we stood.
“Are you all right?” she hastened to inquire, as befitted a clergyman’s missus. “Is anyone hurt?”
Her long-lashed, wide-set brown eyes and pleasant expression always reminded me, most irreverently, of Elsie the Cow. Under the present somber circumstances I admonished myself to get a grip and assured her that Emma and I were just fine. Then as gently as possible, I pointed out that Prudy Crane seemed to have gone to meet her maker, cause or causes unknown. That’s when Mavis surprised me. Instead of having an attack of the vapors, she turned slowly to confront Prudy where she sat, silver duct tape covering her mouth. And then Mavis smiled.
At the time I didn’t have an opportunity to ponder her odd reaction. A police cruiser screeched down Old Main Street from our left, followed closely by the emergency rescue van and two unmarked sedans with blue emergency lights on their dashboards. Next
Very deliberately, Emma placed her bag on the sidewalk and came to stand next to me. I didn’t want to, but I put a bracing hand against the woman’s right shoulder as Emma tipped the dryer hood up and back. The full weight of the upper body sagged against me, and Emma pushed on the left shoulder to help me sit blue-dress lady upright. Wearing her habitual dour expression and a slash of duct tape over her mouth, Prudence Crane sat before us, no longer among the missing, and very dead.
“Guess we’d better let Abby know that Prudy won’t be coming in today,” Emma commented matter-of-factly. She dug her cell phone out of her pocket and looked at it blankly. Then she sat down hard on the curb.
Two
After taking a few deep breaths apiece, Emma and I realized that our gruesome discovery had gone unnoticed by the few pedestrians on the street. A block away on the other side of the street, a cluster of small boys labored on their entry in the scarecrow competition, which, judging from the outdated uniform, spectacles and odd hat, seemed to a scout leader circa 1950. Other than Miriam Drinkwater, who was letting herself into the Keeney Memorial a block farther down for her morning shift as volunteer tour guide, the only citizens to be seen at this hour were scurrying from their parked cars into the diner and back. Rather than risk pandemonium by going back inside and calling for help, we used Emma’s cell phone to place a 911 call to the Wethersfield Police Department. Even though we made it clear that poor Prudy was beyond medical help, we braced ourselves for the inevitable rush of emergency vehicles that would arrive in conjunction with the official investigation that had been set into motion with our call.
I also knew that the dozens of private citizens who monitored police calls via scanners in their homes would ensure a crowd of gawkers on the scene very soon, so time was of the essence if the crime scene were to be preserved. And finally, the next person who came out of the diner would be certain to get the bare facts, then hustle back inside, bristling with self-importance, to take center stage as The First Person to Know About the Murder. The only question was, who would it be?
The answer wasn’t long in coming. No sooner did our ears pick up the wail of approaching sirens than Mavis Griswold, the Methodist minister’s wife, appeared from the direction of the diner. She came up behind us where we sat on the curb and paused as it became evident that the emergency vehicles were converging at the place where we stood.
“Are you all right?” she hastened to inquire, as befitted a clergyman’s missus. “Is anyone hurt?”
Her long-lashed, wide-set brown eyes and pleasant expression always reminded me, most irreverently, of Elsie the Cow. Under the present somber circumstances I admonished myself to get a grip and assured her that Emma and I were just fine. Then as gently as possible, I pointed out that Prudy Crane seemed to have gone to meet her maker, cause or causes unknown. That’s when Mavis surprised me. Instead of having an attack of the vapors, she turned slowly to confront Prudy where she sat, silver duct tape covering her mouth. And then Mavis smiled.
At the time I didn’t have an opportunity to ponder her odd reaction. A police cruiser screeched down Old Main Street from our left, followed closely by the emergency rescue van and two unmarked sedans with blue emergency lights on their dashboards. Next
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