offered her a seat near the fireplace. She sat.
"Would you like a drink?" he asked.
"I don't drink," she said. "I used to, but not anymore." Another smile, this one a bit edgy.
Creosote pranced into the room and leaped into Ryerson's arms. It was a good jump, almost five feet, and Jenny Goodlow was apparently impressed.
"He certainly loves you, doesn't he, Mr. Biergarten ," she said.
Ryerson asked her to call him Rye, she nodded, and he went on, "An ugly little dog, I know, but a real sweetheart."
Jenny nodded again, attempted another smile, but it did not work well. She shook her head, sighed. "Someone who said he was my brother came to see me."
Ryerson sat in a club chair nearby and put Creosote on the floor. "Was it a blond man? Tall, good-looking? Nicely trimmed beard?"
She shook her head. "No. This man was dark haired. Average height. He was good-looking, yes. But he had no beard. He looked . . . Mediterranean. Italian. He even had an accent. It wasn't an Italian accent; I've never heard an accent like it before." She shook her head again. Creosote came over and looked up at her. She grinned and tentatively touched the top of the dog's head.
"He doesn't bite," Ryerson said. "I don't think he can bite with that flat snout."
She scratched Creosote under the chin. She said, "This man wasn't my brother, of course. But he . . . knew things, Mr. Biergarten . You know, the kind of things that only brothers could know. It was very unnerving. I knew he wasn't my brother, of course, but I began to . . . doubt myself, I guess . . ."
Ryerson reached out, touched her hand. "Miss Goodlow ," he began, but he had little idea how to continue. If he told her the truth—what he supposed was the truth, at any rate—she'd think he was nuts. He withdrew his hand. "Had you let this man into your house?"
She grimaced. "I'm not a fool. I talked to him through the screen door. It was just a short while ago, just before noon. He walked off, and he was gone. I called your number, got your housekeeper, learned that you'd stepped out for a while, and left a message with him that I was coming here. Actually, Mr. Biergarten , I'm a bit leery of going back to the house."
"I didn't get the message." He paused. "You could stay here, if you'd like."
She shook her head. "I'm booked into the Sheraton."
~ * ~
The boy thought that he was either being awfully brave or awfully stupid. Wasn't he the one who had decided that this strange mound of earth wasn't something to mess with? So what was he doing here, now, alone? Sometimes it was real difficult figuring himself out.
He poked at the mound with a long, thin stick. The dirt seemed hard. Why not? he thought. It had settled overnight. He nodded to himself. Sure, the dirt had settled, so it was harder. And there had been a thunderstorm too, and wouldn't that make the dirt thicker?
No, it wouldn't, he realized. The rain would have washed some of the dirt away, and it wouldn't be thicker , there would be less of it.
So, it wasn't the dirt that was thicker and harder. He wasn't poking at the dirt , he was poking at something in the dirt.
A rock. Sure, he was poking at a big rock in the dirt.
He withdrew the stick, hesitated, took a step to his right, poked again. The stick sank into the dirt a few inches and stopped. He pushed. The stick sank no further into the dirt. He pushed harder. The stick snapped.
The noise of the stick snapping brought an Ah! of surprise from him. He stared wide-eyed at the mound for a moment, threw the stick down, turned, and ran home.
~ * ~
The big man knew that it had to be done and that he was the only one who could do it. He had brought this ... thing up here in the first place—against the woman's wishes and, he had to admit, against her better judgment—and now it was up to him to dispose of it.
He stared at the body from twenty feet away. There was one dim overhead light on and in its soft, yellowish glow the body looked simply like one of the
"Would you like a drink?" he asked.
"I don't drink," she said. "I used to, but not anymore." Another smile, this one a bit edgy.
Creosote pranced into the room and leaped into Ryerson's arms. It was a good jump, almost five feet, and Jenny Goodlow was apparently impressed.
"He certainly loves you, doesn't he, Mr. Biergarten ," she said.
Ryerson asked her to call him Rye, she nodded, and he went on, "An ugly little dog, I know, but a real sweetheart."
Jenny nodded again, attempted another smile, but it did not work well. She shook her head, sighed. "Someone who said he was my brother came to see me."
Ryerson sat in a club chair nearby and put Creosote on the floor. "Was it a blond man? Tall, good-looking? Nicely trimmed beard?"
She shook her head. "No. This man was dark haired. Average height. He was good-looking, yes. But he had no beard. He looked . . . Mediterranean. Italian. He even had an accent. It wasn't an Italian accent; I've never heard an accent like it before." She shook her head again. Creosote came over and looked up at her. She grinned and tentatively touched the top of the dog's head.
"He doesn't bite," Ryerson said. "I don't think he can bite with that flat snout."
She scratched Creosote under the chin. She said, "This man wasn't my brother, of course. But he . . . knew things, Mr. Biergarten . You know, the kind of things that only brothers could know. It was very unnerving. I knew he wasn't my brother, of course, but I began to . . . doubt myself, I guess . . ."
Ryerson reached out, touched her hand. "Miss Goodlow ," he began, but he had little idea how to continue. If he told her the truth—what he supposed was the truth, at any rate—she'd think he was nuts. He withdrew his hand. "Had you let this man into your house?"
She grimaced. "I'm not a fool. I talked to him through the screen door. It was just a short while ago, just before noon. He walked off, and he was gone. I called your number, got your housekeeper, learned that you'd stepped out for a while, and left a message with him that I was coming here. Actually, Mr. Biergarten , I'm a bit leery of going back to the house."
"I didn't get the message." He paused. "You could stay here, if you'd like."
She shook her head. "I'm booked into the Sheraton."
~ * ~
The boy thought that he was either being awfully brave or awfully stupid. Wasn't he the one who had decided that this strange mound of earth wasn't something to mess with? So what was he doing here, now, alone? Sometimes it was real difficult figuring himself out.
He poked at the mound with a long, thin stick. The dirt seemed hard. Why not? he thought. It had settled overnight. He nodded to himself. Sure, the dirt had settled, so it was harder. And there had been a thunderstorm too, and wouldn't that make the dirt thicker?
No, it wouldn't, he realized. The rain would have washed some of the dirt away, and it wouldn't be thicker , there would be less of it.
So, it wasn't the dirt that was thicker and harder. He wasn't poking at the dirt , he was poking at something in the dirt.
A rock. Sure, he was poking at a big rock in the dirt.
He withdrew the stick, hesitated, took a step to his right, poked again. The stick sank into the dirt a few inches and stopped. He pushed. The stick sank no further into the dirt. He pushed harder. The stick snapped.
The noise of the stick snapping brought an Ah! of surprise from him. He stared wide-eyed at the mound for a moment, threw the stick down, turned, and ran home.
~ * ~
The big man knew that it had to be done and that he was the only one who could do it. He had brought this ... thing up here in the first place—against the woman's wishes and, he had to admit, against her better judgment—and now it was up to him to dispose of it.
He stared at the body from twenty feet away. There was one dim overhead light on and in its soft, yellowish glow the body looked simply like one of the
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