Murder at Morningside by Sandra Bretting

Herbert Solomon forced the groom to sign a prenup that would leave him high and dry after the ceremony. Might he be talking big for Beatrice’s benefit?
    â€œIt doesn’t matter what I believe,” Beatrice said. “Go home and let me figure out what to do. Don’t make a move until I call you. Got that?”
    Her voice was like broken glass; so different from the chipper greeting I’d heard before.
    â€œIf you say so, but I’d rather stay here with you.”
    â€œI told you . . . go home. Stay there until I call. Don’t even think about coming back or trying to contact me.”
    â€œBut I can’t go back there.” His voice softened to a whimper; like a puppy dog begging for a treat. “The rent’s due and I haven’t got it.”
    â€œNot again.” Although I couldn’t see a thing from my hiding spot, I imagined Beatrice shaking her head. “What happened to the money I gave you last month? Don’t tell me you blew it already.”
    â€œIt’s those acting lessons, Bea. They charge so damn much. How can they expect us to pay for it? They know we’re starving artists, but they don’t care.”
    â€œWhy do you always come to me for it? I don’t have any more money than you. Guess you should have asked your fiancée.”
    â€œYou know how her father was, tightfisted bastard. I’m only two weeks behind. That’s all I need. I promise I’ll pay you back. Every dime of it.”
    More rustling, and then a hand slapped something on a bar stool not too far away. Hallelujah I was up to date on my prayers, or else I’d want to confess something right then and there and beg God to hide me. As it was, I simply held my breath and hoped for the best.
    â€œThere. That’s all I have,” Beatrice said. “Take it. But don’t ask me for anything more until the end of the month.” Her voice quieted. She must have stepped away from the bar. “And be careful. The police are probably checking out your apartment now.”
    â€œI will. And I’ll pay you back. Promise.”
    â€œYeah, right. Any day now.”
    Finally, the bar fell silent. I snatched up the Tampax, along with some Altoids and my cell phone, and tucked them all in my purse. Not that I wanted to overhear a private conversation, mind you, but I couldn’t very well have stood and excused myself to go use the ladies’ room. No, proper etiquette dictated I let them finish their little chat, even with me listening from not more than four feet away.
    Surprising how different Beatrice sounded. She couldn’t have been nicer to Ambrose and me, while she sounded ready to bite that guy’s head off and spit it out the nearest window. More like a parent giving a scolding.
    Not that either of them sounded a bit sorry Trinity was dead. They seemed put out, inconvenienced. Like they wanted to save their hides instead of find out who murdered the young bride.
    Which meant I’d have to chew on their words, along with some biscuits and gravy, at breakfast. As if on cue, my stomach growled, so I smoothed down the cloche before straightening and moseyed over to the maître d’ stand.
    Sure enough, Charles stood sentinel behind the wooden podium as fresh-looking as one of the linen tablecloths draped over the tables.
    â€œMorning, Melissa. Is your friend still upstairs?”
    I focused on closing my purse so the tension had time to dribble from my face. No need to let Charles think something was wrong. “No. He’s not coming this morning. He had to put out some fires at his shop yesterday, and he never made it back. And please call me Missy.”
    â€œWill do. And that’s too bad about your friend.” Charles led me through the restaurant to a table near the window, where he expertly scooped up the unneeded place setting.
    â€œHis assistant can’t seem to get along without him,” I said. “Someday