Free Murder on the Eightfold Path by Diana Killian Page B

herself for the answer.
    “You know I don’t use e-mail unless I have to.”
    That was true, and it was one bright spot. At least Elysia would not have left an electronic trail.
    They went through all the drawers in Dicky’s bureau and dressing table but turned up nothing more interesting than an overabundance of dress socks.
    A.J. sifted through her share of the dresser drawers quickly. She wanted out of this apartment as soon as possible. All they needed was a nosy neighbor or a prospective tenant and they’d be trying to explain themselves to the local law—and good luck with that. “What about his friends? Did he have any?”
    “I met his upstairs neighbor once,” Elysia said. “They seemed to get on well enough.”
    “It’s so weird. He’s like the Man Who Never Was.”
    “I assure you, pumpkin, he most definitely was .”
    As A.J. slid the drawer back it seemed to stick. She pulled it out, tried again, and heard something tear.
    “There’s something here.”
    A.J. pulled the drawer all the way out and Elysia rushed to take it from her.
    “You’re not supposed to lift!”
    Letting Elysia take the drawer, A.J. reached inside. Jammed into the wooden track was a crumpled greeting card. She freed it carefully, drew it out, and smoothed the stiff paper, examining it curiously.
    Elaborate gold script on embossed white stock read Happy Birthday to My Husband .
    Heart pounding in hope, A.J. opened the card. Beneath the usual lavish and saccharine sentiments was scrawled xo and a name: Medea.
    “Hey, take a look at this.” She held the card out to her mother.
    Elysia took the card and opened it. She seemed to go very still.
    “He was married,” A.J. said.
    Elysia said nothing.
    “He was already married to someone else. Married to someone named Medea. If we could find this woman, this Medea, we would probably have the answer to who killed Dicky.”
    Still Elysia did not speak—and that was so odd that A.J. fell silent, too.
    And in that profound silence she heard a key scrape in the front door lock and the sound of the front door opening.
    “Hide!” gasped Elysia, attempting to shove the drawer soundlessly back in its track.
    “Hide where?” squeaked A.J.
    There was no more time than that. Elysia dove beneath the bed. Her arm poked from beneath the bed skirt, beckoning wildly to A.J., but A.J. knew there was no way her back would permit her to climb under the bed—not if she planned on ever climbing out again. She backed into the crowded walk-in closet, ducking behind the suits and silk shirts, listening tensely. Yes, someone had definitely entered the apartment.
    The scent of Dicky’s aftershave was disconcerting. A.J. tried to blank it out and concentrate on the voices. Blanketed in sport coats and shirts, she could see nothing, and though she could hear voices, they were too low to discern more than that there were two more people in the apartment and that one was—possibly—female.
    Her first panicked thought had been that she and Elysia had been discovered by the apartment complex manager, but she realized now that that was probably incorrect. The intruders sounded as though they might be arguing. Then A.J. heard the distinct slide of blinds across the front window.
    Perhaps these were the hitherto unknown friends or family of the dead man? Oh God . What if they had arrived to pack all his things?
    She heard the floor creak. A male voice close to the bedroom door said, “I still don’t see the point of this.”
    The answer was indistinct.
    “Well, we better make this fast. That gardener is coming down this way.”
    A muffled response.
    “How do I know? I don’t want to take the chance of being spotted walking out of here.”
    Over the pounding of blood in her ears A.J. could just make out the hurried swing and bang of the kitchen cupboard doors. What were they looking for?
    This was very bad. Unless they found what they were looking for in the kitchen—and given how bare the cupboards were,