Free A Quiet Kill by Janet Brons

best thing he had ever done, if you didn’t count marrying Mrs. Wilmot. Almost thirty years ago, the wedding, he realized with a start. Lester didn’t miss Toronto much, and they were both much happier here. Mrs. Wilmot had made some good friends and was even talking about taking out British citizenship. The thought would never have crossed their minds before, but now they were thinking seriously about it.
    The move had been good for the business as well. His brother, Alex, had been happy to stay behind and run the Canadian store, and was in a position to seek out high-quality Canadian furs and ship them to the London outlet for sale. These environmentalists were a constant irritant, though. The harassment had seemingly peaked earlier in the year, but there was always a danger of the ruffians hanging about outside the store and doing their best to damage trade.
    Lester closed out his cash drawer. Well, of course there was no cash; no one paid cash for fur coats. But there was a nice credit card receipt for that handsome fox jacket he had sold this morning. They really should try to get up to the Lake District this summer, he thought. Everyone had been urging them to go, but he had been unable to leave the store for that long. Now, though, he was in a position to hire some staff, and perhaps he could find someone trustworthy enough to take care of the shop while he and Mrs. Wilmot took a week’s vacation. Perhaps two weeks.
    Lester Wilmot gazed from behind his counter toward the display window. He could see a few Christmas lights already twinkling in the window of the high-end clothing store across the street. He must get his own decorations up on Monday, he thought with a little thrill of anticipation. Christmastime was the best part of living in London. It was like something out of Dickens, with the excited apple-cheeked children running about and Christmas carols being piped into every shop. Maybe he should have some music in his store this year as well.
    He had heard nothing at all behind him. The wire was tightening around his neck in an instant. He hardly felt a thing—well, not much anyway—as his windpipe snapped in two.

FIVE
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    Mary Kellick didn’t really mind working at home, especially on brainless, repetitious tasks like writing out invitations. There wasn’t much else to do so early on a Sunday morning anyway. She sat at the kitchen table, with its French country motif, filling out invitations to the High Commissioner’s annual Christmas reception. At least it would be sunny today, she thought, with that beautiful bright light already streaming into the kitchen. Mary was conscious of the faint leftover smell of onions and garlic from last night’s goulash. She had, of course, thrown it out once it was cooked. She never ate anything she made—just cooked it. She never ate much of anything at all these days, really.
    Sometimes when she was making a stew or putting a chicken in the oven to roast, she would imagine that a handsome, charming stranger would appear at her door. His mission was unclear: Perhaps a mutual acquaintance had suggested he call on her. Or he had seen her on the High Street and been intrigued. Anyway, her apartment would be full of wonderful, welcoming odors—rosemary, of course, and perhaps thyme and garlic—and he would stay to dinner. But this hadn’t happened yet.
    The last time that Mary had met a charming stranger, some years ago, it had ended badly. He was a Canadian businessman who had been on a trade mission to London, and Mary had allowed herself to be swept off her feet. She doubted that he ever learned about the baby after he went back to Canada. Not that she had been able to carry it to term anyway. Sometimes she missed the baby, though. She didn’t know if it had been a boy or a girl, but she fancied that it was a girl. She had always wanted a girl.
    The then High Commissioner had been very kind to her and very angry about