absolutely—and that was rare enough to be remarkable—he scarcely felt this was a suitable topic for discussion. But, obviously, some response was necessary.
“Uh,” he began, and knew it lacked both resonance and pizzazz.
“Not that I would dream of interfering.” The golden tone was a little hurried. “You know that I would
never
presume to impinge upon the lives of others.”
This was so patently untrue that it distracted him for a moment.
“Oh. Do hold on, my sweet. Another line is ringing. I’ll get right back to you.”
Max cradled the receiver between his ear and shoulder, determinedly refused to think about his mother’s well-meant (as always) but outrageous probing and stared pensively at the ceiling. What other avenue could he explore to find out something—anything—about the damn moles who lived at Nightingale Courts? Now, he had unearthed quite a bit on Ingrid. There’d been a nice story in the
Savannah News
when she retired after thirty-four years as a librarian there, and he’d found plenty on Duane Webb. Poor bastard. But astonishingly little had come to light about Jesse Penrick, Ophelia Baxter, Adele Prescott, and Mavis Beeson. As for Tom Smith—Max glared at the legal pad on his desk—the inhabitant of Cabin 7 was apparently invisible. No voters registration, no bank account, no insurance policies, no—
“My dear boy,” Laurel resumed reassuringly, “I want you to understand that I am with you in spirit. Actually, I would be gravely concerned. But—you
are
my son.”
That had never been disputed, so far as Max knew.
“Therefore”—and she trilled with relief—“I know that you will take care of first things
first
. And, of course, we shall all bend every effort to bring this to a rapid conclusion, both for Ingrid’s sake and—”
Max interrupted firmly, though he would forever after wonder just how his mother might have intended to complete that sentence. “Mother, it is the most singularthing—I’ve had a sense of other spirits burning to aid us in our quest.”
He almost felt a moments shame, because Laurel was
thrilled
.
“Maxwell, how wonderful! I always knew that you, too, were one of us.”
He had a vision of hundreds of oatmeal-robed figures and shuddered.
“My dear, have you received a little
hint
perhaps of where Ingrid is?” A breathless pause, intense anticipation.
“Uh.” Max scratched at the back of his neck. “Uh, no. Can’t say that I have.”
Laurel sighed breathily. “I suppose you haven’t yet reached that plane. And I’m afraid Ophelia and I have demanded too much of our contacts. Ophelia’s faculties seem to be
blocked.”
Max wasn’t persuaded that Ophelia, as he recalled the tubby, turbaned woman, possessed any notable faculties at all, so he wasn’t terribly surprised. However, to keep the conversation away from himself and Annie, he would gladly have discussed the conjugation of Swahili or the impressive swimming abilities of the marsh rabbit (seven hundred yards when pressed), so he said in hearty sympathy, “Laurel, that’s a damned shame.”
“I
knew
you would understand,” Laurel chirped. “So,” she continued with brisk, satisfied assurance, “you’ll get me a key to Ingrid’s cabin.”
Max shoved the lever and his chair snapped upright. Somnolence fled, replaced by intense concentration. “Mother, that’s a Crime Scene. No admittance. You could get in a lot of trouble.”
“If I had a key and said I was picking up something Ingrid had told me—”
“No. Absolutely and positively and definitively, no.”
“Maxwell, sometimes you act just like your father—and that man was no fun at all!”
The connection broke with a bang.
Max glowered at the buzzing receiver. A confrontation between Laurel and Posey didn’t bear thinking about it. Somehow he had to make it clear to Laurel that access to Ingrid’s cabin was absolutely impossible.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t easy to make any proposition clear to
“Uh,” he began, and knew it lacked both resonance and pizzazz.
“Not that I would dream of interfering.” The golden tone was a little hurried. “You know that I would
never
presume to impinge upon the lives of others.”
This was so patently untrue that it distracted him for a moment.
“Oh. Do hold on, my sweet. Another line is ringing. I’ll get right back to you.”
Max cradled the receiver between his ear and shoulder, determinedly refused to think about his mother’s well-meant (as always) but outrageous probing and stared pensively at the ceiling. What other avenue could he explore to find out something—anything—about the damn moles who lived at Nightingale Courts? Now, he had unearthed quite a bit on Ingrid. There’d been a nice story in the
Savannah News
when she retired after thirty-four years as a librarian there, and he’d found plenty on Duane Webb. Poor bastard. But astonishingly little had come to light about Jesse Penrick, Ophelia Baxter, Adele Prescott, and Mavis Beeson. As for Tom Smith—Max glared at the legal pad on his desk—the inhabitant of Cabin 7 was apparently invisible. No voters registration, no bank account, no insurance policies, no—
“My dear boy,” Laurel resumed reassuringly, “I want you to understand that I am with you in spirit. Actually, I would be gravely concerned. But—you
are
my son.”
That had never been disputed, so far as Max knew.
“Therefore”—and she trilled with relief—“I know that you will take care of first things
first
. And, of course, we shall all bend every effort to bring this to a rapid conclusion, both for Ingrid’s sake and—”
Max interrupted firmly, though he would forever after wonder just how his mother might have intended to complete that sentence. “Mother, it is the most singularthing—I’ve had a sense of other spirits burning to aid us in our quest.”
He almost felt a moments shame, because Laurel was
thrilled
.
“Maxwell, how wonderful! I always knew that you, too, were one of us.”
He had a vision of hundreds of oatmeal-robed figures and shuddered.
“My dear, have you received a little
hint
perhaps of where Ingrid is?” A breathless pause, intense anticipation.
“Uh.” Max scratched at the back of his neck. “Uh, no. Can’t say that I have.”
Laurel sighed breathily. “I suppose you haven’t yet reached that plane. And I’m afraid Ophelia and I have demanded too much of our contacts. Ophelia’s faculties seem to be
blocked.”
Max wasn’t persuaded that Ophelia, as he recalled the tubby, turbaned woman, possessed any notable faculties at all, so he wasn’t terribly surprised. However, to keep the conversation away from himself and Annie, he would gladly have discussed the conjugation of Swahili or the impressive swimming abilities of the marsh rabbit (seven hundred yards when pressed), so he said in hearty sympathy, “Laurel, that’s a damned shame.”
“I
knew
you would understand,” Laurel chirped. “So,” she continued with brisk, satisfied assurance, “you’ll get me a key to Ingrid’s cabin.”
Max shoved the lever and his chair snapped upright. Somnolence fled, replaced by intense concentration. “Mother, that’s a Crime Scene. No admittance. You could get in a lot of trouble.”
“If I had a key and said I was picking up something Ingrid had told me—”
“No. Absolutely and positively and definitively, no.”
“Maxwell, sometimes you act just like your father—and that man was no fun at all!”
The connection broke with a bang.
Max glowered at the buzzing receiver. A confrontation between Laurel and Posey didn’t bear thinking about it. Somehow he had to make it clear to Laurel that access to Ingrid’s cabin was absolutely impossible.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t easy to make any proposition clear to
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