Huckleberry Fiend by Julie Smith Page B

to go up another $250,000.”
    “That’s very generous,” said Sardis.
    “But of course,” I noted, “there’s other interest.”
    “I understand. I just hope you… fathom how much this would mean to me.” The pair of tears did an encore.
    She showed us out herself, not even calling a servant or Rosamund. She pumped Sardis’s hand: “ So nice to meet you in person, my dear. And you too, Mr. Harper. You’re so very sympatico — the sort of people who truly love and appreciate books.”
    By now, Rosamund had put her Harley away, leaving the yard as pristine as a mountain meadow. “I wish,” said Sardis, “she’d taken us for a turn around the grounds.”
    “Maybe she didn’t think we truly love and appreciate flowers.”
    “Hey, something’s funny about the car.”
    I bent down. “You’re not kidding. Two flats on this side.” Sardis walked to the other. “And two over here.”
    “Oh, God. If it were a dark and stormy night, I’d be awfully nervous.”
    “Even then we could just call AAA.”
    “We couldn’t, actually.”
    “You’re not a member?”
    “Canceled for nonpayment.”
    “Damn! Why didn’t we bring my car? I’ve got one of those little compressors you plug into your cigarette lighter.”
    “Maybe Rosamund has one— she looks the handy type. Or we could just call a cab.”
    “Let’s fling ourselves on the duchess’s mercy.”
    This time the door was opened by a uniformed maid— unfortunately one who spoke no English. After much sign language, we wrote our names— Williams and Harper— for her to show to the chatelaine. Once again, we were ushered into the library. Pamela was sitting at her desk, now wearing a pair of pink-tinted aviator glasses. In front of her, open to the picture on the back flap, was a copy of Vandal in Bohemia by Paul Mcdonald.
    “Miss Williams and Mr. Harper. I didn’t expect you again so soon.” She looked pointedly from the picture to me.
    “Really? You seem to have taken pains to keep us here.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “We’re easy— you could have just offered tea. You didn’t have to have your daughter let the air out of our tires.”
    “Rosamund? Rosamund did what?”
    “Rosamund or someone let the air out of our tires.”
    “How awful! I assure you it isn’t my doing. I am glad you’re back, though. Perhaps you’ll sign my book.”
    “Just what are you up to, Mrs. Temby?”
    “Nothing! How could I be? We were together all the time— I could scarcely have given any orders, could I? These things happen in a city. Why are you so suspicious of me?”
    “You knew who I was.”
    “I didn’t at first, exactly. I just thought you looked familiar. And then it began to dawn on me. I have an excellent memory for faces, you see— particularly those I like.” She took off the glasses. “Actually, I’ve been perishing to look at the picture for the last half-hour. I must say, Mr. Mcdonald—”
    “Paul.”
    “When I was a struggling author, I did typing to make ends meet. But you seem to have come up with a more innovative solution. I hope you were careful making those copies, incidentally. You can damage the delicate pages that way.”
    “This isn’t actually my show. I’m here because Miss Williams wanted company this afternoon.”
    “It’s still Miss Williams, is it?”
    “Sarah,” said Sardis.
    “Sarah.” She crossed her legs slowly and elegantly. “You wanted company, did you? Did you think I’d bite you, my dear?”
    Sardis smiled. “I’m representing someone who’s trying to sell a property worth a small fortune. People get nasty over things like that.”
    Temby raised a perfectly shaped and colored eyebrow. “I thought you told me you were acting alone.”
    Panic flickered briefly on Sardis’s face. The real Sarah Williams— Beverly— had contacted Temby, and we had no way of knowing what she’d told her. But Sardis composed herself quickly. “Did I say that? I guess I forgot.”
    “Do you know what I