the jail, engine running, when Victoria came out. By now it was raining steadily. Bill O’Malley set down the milk carton step and helped her aboard.
“I didn’t intend for you to wait for me.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. T. How’s your friend?”
“As well as can be expected. I can’t bear to think of anyone shut up like that.”
“Home again?”
“Yes. It’s been a long day.” Victoria tucked her cap into her cloth bag.
“Would you like some music?” He reached for the knob but waited for Victoria to answer.
“I’d enjoy that.” Victoria settled back in her seat, only to sit forward again when banjo music poured out of the speakers. “I love banjos.” She tapped her foot to the music. “I’ve always loved banjos.”
“Monroe, Scruggs, and Flatt,” said Bill with a grin.
She had no idea who he was talking about. She listened to the swish of windshield wipers, the steady rumble of the engine, and the music of the Blue Grass Boys, and continued to tap her foot.
The music was so captivating, she didn’t notice that O’Malley had pulled up by her stone steps.
“Any time you need a ride, give me a call.” He stowed the milk crate she’d used for a step behind his seat and drove off.
Victoria’s phone call on Darcy’s behalf didn’t solve the mystery She told the woman who answered who she was and that Emery Meyer had asked her to call. The woman said, “Just a moment, please.” Victoria waited, and in a short time a woman’s pleasant low voice came on the line. “Mrs. Trumbull, how may I help?” She repeated what Darcy had told her, Emery Meyer jailed for murder. The woman thanked her for calling, didn’t ask for additional information, not even her phone number, and hung up.
Victoria felt let down. She examined the slip of paper with the 800 phone number. It gave no clue as to its location. She called the information operator, but got a series of robotic voices telling her to press numbers. Since she had a dial phone, she gave up. She slipped the paper into her phone book, then thought better of it and took the paper to the sink, lit a match to it, and watched the dark ash curl. She crushed the ash with a paper napkin and deposited ash and napkin in the compost bucket.
As she was putting the lid back on the bucket, someone knocked tentatively and opened the door a crack.
“Mrs. Trumbull?”
Victoria looked up. “Come in, Delilah.”
Delilah lifted her nose and sniffed. “That’s not your supper burning, is it?”
“No, it was nothing important. Tea?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.” Delilah was wearing jeans with a sharp crease that appeared to be stitched in, and a foul-weather jacket that matched her hair. “I think we’ve had enough
rain.” She sat in the gray-painted kitchen chair and talked while Victoria filled the kettle.
“I can’t believe the police arrested Darcy for killing that pilot. They’d only met yesterday afternoon. It’s obvious his death was an accident. Darcy wouldn’t push him into the pond, then pull him out again, would he?”
Victoria didn’t answer.
“Now I have no one to drive me.”
“How did you get here?” Victoria asked.
“I drove myself.”
Victoria, who’d lost her license after her minor accident with the Meals on Wheels van, had little sympathy. She glanced out the window and saw a low yellow sports car parked in the drive. Raindrops pattered on the fabric roof.
“Henry’s as bad as the police. He’s sure my chauffeur killed the man. He’s been grilling me about him.”
“Did you tell Henry how you happened to meet Darcy? That he came to your television studio with flowers?”
Delilah extended her fingers and studied the orange-brown polish on her nails. “I told him Darcy came from the employment agency.”
“Oh?” Victoria tried to make eye contact, but Delilah rattled on.
“Henry wanted to know about his references. I told him to ask the agency, not me.” She stopped for breath.
“There’s
“I didn’t intend for you to wait for me.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. T. How’s your friend?”
“As well as can be expected. I can’t bear to think of anyone shut up like that.”
“Home again?”
“Yes. It’s been a long day.” Victoria tucked her cap into her cloth bag.
“Would you like some music?” He reached for the knob but waited for Victoria to answer.
“I’d enjoy that.” Victoria settled back in her seat, only to sit forward again when banjo music poured out of the speakers. “I love banjos.” She tapped her foot to the music. “I’ve always loved banjos.”
“Monroe, Scruggs, and Flatt,” said Bill with a grin.
She had no idea who he was talking about. She listened to the swish of windshield wipers, the steady rumble of the engine, and the music of the Blue Grass Boys, and continued to tap her foot.
The music was so captivating, she didn’t notice that O’Malley had pulled up by her stone steps.
“Any time you need a ride, give me a call.” He stowed the milk crate she’d used for a step behind his seat and drove off.
Victoria’s phone call on Darcy’s behalf didn’t solve the mystery She told the woman who answered who she was and that Emery Meyer had asked her to call. The woman said, “Just a moment, please.” Victoria waited, and in a short time a woman’s pleasant low voice came on the line. “Mrs. Trumbull, how may I help?” She repeated what Darcy had told her, Emery Meyer jailed for murder. The woman thanked her for calling, didn’t ask for additional information, not even her phone number, and hung up.
Victoria felt let down. She examined the slip of paper with the 800 phone number. It gave no clue as to its location. She called the information operator, but got a series of robotic voices telling her to press numbers. Since she had a dial phone, she gave up. She slipped the paper into her phone book, then thought better of it and took the paper to the sink, lit a match to it, and watched the dark ash curl. She crushed the ash with a paper napkin and deposited ash and napkin in the compost bucket.
As she was putting the lid back on the bucket, someone knocked tentatively and opened the door a crack.
“Mrs. Trumbull?”
Victoria looked up. “Come in, Delilah.”
Delilah lifted her nose and sniffed. “That’s not your supper burning, is it?”
“No, it was nothing important. Tea?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.” Delilah was wearing jeans with a sharp crease that appeared to be stitched in, and a foul-weather jacket that matched her hair. “I think we’ve had enough
rain.” She sat in the gray-painted kitchen chair and talked while Victoria filled the kettle.
“I can’t believe the police arrested Darcy for killing that pilot. They’d only met yesterday afternoon. It’s obvious his death was an accident. Darcy wouldn’t push him into the pond, then pull him out again, would he?”
Victoria didn’t answer.
“Now I have no one to drive me.”
“How did you get here?” Victoria asked.
“I drove myself.”
Victoria, who’d lost her license after her minor accident with the Meals on Wheels van, had little sympathy. She glanced out the window and saw a low yellow sports car parked in the drive. Raindrops pattered on the fabric roof.
“Henry’s as bad as the police. He’s sure my chauffeur killed the man. He’s been grilling me about him.”
“Did you tell Henry how you happened to meet Darcy? That he came to your television studio with flowers?”
Delilah extended her fingers and studied the orange-brown polish on her nails. “I told him Darcy came from the employment agency.”
“Oh?” Victoria tried to make eye contact, but Delilah rattled on.
“Henry wanted to know about his references. I told him to ask the agency, not me.” She stopped for breath.
“There’s
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