Free The Kill by Jan Neuharth Page A

frowned at the pale reflection that stared back at her. Bluish shadows hung like half-moons beneath her dark-brown eyes, making her look as exhausted as she felt. When had those tiny lines popped up? She rummaged through her cosmetic kit, found an old stick of concealer, and dabbed it around her eyes, then finger-combed her hair. She wrinkled her nose as she studied her reflection in the mirror. No matter how many hairdressers told her how lucky she was to have “natural body,” she regarded her mane of curls as a curse. Sure, given proper time and a blow dryer she could tame it into soft waves, but more often than not she simply pulled it back. Tonight, her fingers moved swiftly as she wove it into a French braid. Abigale twisted around, looked over her shoulder at the mirror, and tucked in few wayward hairs. “Guess that’s as good as it’s going to get.”
    She dressed quickly in her black slacks and blouse. A dark, spicy aroma wafted up from downstairs and her stomach grumbled, reminding her that it had been over twenty-four hours since she’d last eaten a meal. In spite of her misgivings about the evening, she was suddenly grateful to Margaret for going to the trouble of cooking dinner.
    Abigale paused at the top of the stairs. She heard voices below, coming from the library, and thought of the last time she’d been in that room. “That was then, this is now,” she whispered as she gripped the stair railing and started down the steps. “You can do this.”
    As she stepped off the last stair, the front door swung inward and a man’s voice called out, “Knock-knock. Anyone home?”
    An attractive brown-haired man, probably in his mid-to-late thirties, breezed inside and quickly closed the door. He had on a gray wool overcoat, buttoned up the front, beneath which she caught a glimpse of a blue shirt and red-and-blue striped bow tie. He turned in her direction and his dark eyes lit up. “You must be Abigale.”
    “Yes.”
    He grasped her hand firmly between both of his. “I’m Thompson James. Your uncle was a close friend of mine. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
    “Thank you.”
    Thompson gave her hand a quick squeeze before releasing it. “It’s freezing out there,” he said, exaggerating a shiver as he unbuttoned his overcoat and hung it on the coatrack by the front door. “When did you arrive?”
    “Just a couple of hours ago.”
    He straightened his bow tie as he turned back to her, his mouth curved down in a sympathetic smile. “You must be exhausted. That’s a grueling journey from Afghanistan.”
    “Have you been?”
    “Not Afghanistan. But I’ve been to Iraq.”
    Margaret poked her head around the corner and waved her arm, gesturing them into the room. “Abigale, I thought I heard your voice. Hello, Thompson. Both of you, come on into the library. Everyone’s gathered in front of the fire.”
    Thompson held out his hand. “After you.”
    Abigale was smothered by the scent of pipe tobacco as a stout, older gentleman grabbed her in a bear hug. After squeezing her so hard she let out a groan, he released her, a broad grin crinkling his face. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. What a beautiful woman you turned out to be! Not that I’m at all surprised, mind you.”
    “Smitty?”
    He winked. “You betcha. Still kickin’ after all these years.”
    Abigale leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
    Margaret grabbed her elbow and tugged her over to the stone hearth. “Come closer to the fire, Abigale. It’s colder than a you-know-what tonight. Now let’s see, I think you know most of these folks, except Wendy Brooks.” She nodded in the direction of a plump, pleasant-looking woman wearing wire-framed glasses, who was seated on the sofa.
    The woman smiled and tucked a strand of short brown hair behind her ear. “Hi, Abigale. I’m the hunt secretary. I’ve had the pleasure of riding to hounds with your uncle since I moved here from Michigan