By Mary Daheim
On the market: luxurious Condos, Corpse incorporated only a stone's throw from Judith McMonigle Flynn's thriving Hillside Manor, workmen are busy renovating the elegantly decrepit Alhambra hands into dear condominiums. yet involved contractor George Guthrie fears that well-heeled strength dealers might blanch once they know about the four-decades-dead physique that used to be stashed at the back of the crumbling partitions of the moldy manse. And ever-inquisitive Judith's discovery of a few even more fresh is still at the premises threatens to se estate values throughout the floorboards--and Guthrie during the roof! either her specialist detective husband Joe and her partner-in-crime fixing cousin Renie imagine Judith is bonkers to suspect that the 2 killings are attached. however, Judith's able to construct a robust case to that impression -- until a few homicidal anyone makes a decision to deconstruct her first!
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Additional resources for A Streetcar Named Expire
He nodded, sweat trickling down his high forehead. ” Liz’s surprise was apparent only in the ﬂicker of her eyelashes. She turned the mike on and faced the camera. “I’m with George Guthrie of Guthrie Properties who has just identiﬁed the body of a woman he says is his exorcist. Mr. ” Guthrie had taken a blue-and-white bandana hand- A STREETCAR NAMED EXPIRE 29 kerchief from his pocket and was wiping his face. “Her name’s Mrs. Carrabas—I forget her ﬁrst name—and she came here to exorcise this place.
She saw Jeremy Lamar talking to the man in the orange hard hat. Although she still limped, Judith’s aches and pains had lessened. Hurrying down the staircase, she reached the courtyard just as Jeremy disappeared into an elevator. Judith pressed the button for the car, but it had already started its ascent. The elevator had an old-fashioned dial to indicate the ﬂoors; she saw it stop on three. Impatiently, she waited for its return, got in, and rose to the third ﬂoor. Jeremy wasn’t in sight. Judith stopped at the ﬁrst door, but it was locked and bolted.
Renie shrugged. “Nobody’s talking. About that, I mean,” she added cryptically. Curious, as well as upset, Judith followed Renie into the entry hall, where two uniformed ofﬁcers stood outside the near door to the front parlor. That, she realized, was not a good sign. The primaries— the plainclothes detectives—would be waiting inside. Then again, maybe it was the bunco squad, investigating a hoax. Judith squared her wide shoulders and went into the parlor, which suddenly seemed more ominous than cozy.