CHAPTER 8The room into which Christy was ushered was obviously the library. The surrounding shelves liberally stacked to capacity with more books that she had ever seen before in a home collection. She had not known Chadwell to have been a literary type. The room smelled bad. Christy wrinkled her nose, second before the scream leapt up in her throat.
On the floor at her feet lay Alex Chadwell, positively still, eyes open, staring vacantly up at the ceiling. Congealed blood cracks surrounded an open crater in his left temple, streaking his face a lurid ugly crimson. The blood had long since dried down the front of his white silk shirt.
Christy, realising in a panic that she was still clutching the gun in her hand, with a startled gasp let it slip from her fingers. The weapon connected wit
