Free Murder on the Eightfold Path by Diana Killian

tartly.
    “Ouch.”
    “Qeb, the ship steward, was quite a different sort of person from Dicky. Such a trip would have been extremely difficult and frightening for him. He was rather . . . rustic.”
    “All right. Scratch Qeb. So it must have been one of Dicky’s other victims.”
    Elysia said nothing.
    “Unless he had some other means of support? Obviously he couldn’t continue to work for the Egyptian cruise line, but maybe he found something else?”
    “I doubt it. I never saw any sign of gainful employment. Frankly, it would have been a pain working our trysts around a nine-to-five schedule.”
    “Yes, I’m sure most people agree with that. Mother, are you sure you have no idea about any of Dicky’s other lady friends?”
    “He wouldn’t have introduced us, pumpkin.”
    “You never heard him mention anyone? Never saw a name on a note or an envelope?”
    “I would hardly read his mail, Anna.”
    This had been a sore point for a time during the tumultuous years of A.J.’s parents’ marriage. She said bluntly, “You would if you were sleuthing.”
    “Oh.” Elysia’s expression changed. “True. But unfortunately I didn’t. I suppose I didn’t want to learn anything that might spoil the fun.”
    “What about phone conversations? Or messages on his answering machine?”
    Elysia brightened. “Actually, now that you mention it, I did hear a name once. Dora . . . Boombox. No. Bombeck? Hmmm. Beauford . That was it. She used to ring the poor boy up all hours of night and day. She was besotted .”
    “Besotted.” Now there was a good old-fashioned word. “You mean she was stalking him?”
    “I don’t know if stalking is the right word. She did grow increasingly angry and she did seem to be making rather a nuisance of herself.”
    “Do you know if she ever threatened him?”
    “He could be very exasperating.”
    “So she did threaten him? Mother, maybe this Dora Beauford had something to do with Dicky’s death. Did you tell Jake about her?”
    Elysia shook her head.
    “Why not?”
    “Because that was months ago, pet. I don’t believe Dicky was still in contact with her.”
    “But you don’t know. That’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to let the police determine.”
    “Well, if she was still in contact, they’ll know by now. They took his cell phone.”
    A.J. nodded absently, thinking.
    “Well?” Elysia asked after a time.
    “Well what?”
    Elysia studied her unlit cigarette tip. “Shall we try a spot of the old B&E?”
    A.J. stared at her in consternation. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
    “Joking? I’m most certainly not joking. We’re discussing my life and liberty.”
    “It’s your life and liberty I’m thinking of. Talk about finding the fastest possible way to get yourself thrown back in jail! I can’t believe you’d even suggest it.”
    Elysia’s brows raised. “Never mind the lecture, pumpkin. Yes or no?”
    “It’s no . Absolutely not. Under no circumstances are we sneaking into Dicky’s flat.”
     
    Dicky Massri lived—formerly lived—in an innocuous two-story apartment building in Hackettstown. It looked like a hundred other places: hardy generic gardens surrounding pseudo-Colonial red brick and black shutters. It did not look like the lair of a master blackmailer.
    “Are you sure this place doesn’t have a security guard?” A.J. asked doubtfully, glancing up at the windows on the second story as they approached the complex.
    Elysia didn’t bother to answer that. “See,” she threw over her shoulder as she led the way briskly up the cement walkway to the side entrance. “No crime scene tape.”
    A.J. followed her, watching uneasily as Elysia inserted the key in the lock and pushed open the door. Far across the expanse of patchy lawn she could see a gardener bouncing along on one of those ride-on mowers.
    “You know the police have probably been all over this place by now.”
    Elysia tossed a furtive look over her shoulder and stepped inside the