in a divorce lawyer, Mrs. Hawkin?” But I knew the answer to that.
I glanced toward the studio building. It seemed to be unguarded, and the crime scene tape drooped in the heat. I wandered over and tried the scarred oak and etched glass door, but it was locked. I turned away, then heard a “Psst!” that whirled me back. Marcia Hawkin was standing in the opened doorway, beckoning to me.
She drew me inside, then locked the door after us.
“What did she tell you?” she said fiercely.
Bewilderment time. “Who?” I asked.
“Her,” she said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the main house. “Did she say anything about me?”
“Not a word,” I assured her. “We had a very brief conversation about your father’s work.”
She clutched my arm and pulled me into the sitting area on the ground level. She leaned close and almost whispered. “She’s a dreadful woman. Dreadful! Don’t believe anything she says. Do you want a drink?”
“I think I better,” I said, and she went into the kitchenette. I watched with horror as she poured me a tumbler of warm vodka.
“Miss Hawkin,” I said, “if I drink that I’ll be non compos mentis. Please let me do it.”
I moved to the sink and mixed myself a mild vodka and water with plenty of ice. Meanwhile Marcia had thrown herself on the couch and lay sprawled, biting furiously at a fingernail. An Ophelia, I decided.
It would be difficult to describe her costume in detail without sounding indecent. I shall merely say that she wore an oversized white singlet, soiled and possibly belonging to her dead father, and denim shorts chopped off so radically that they hardly constituted a loincloth. But her lanky semi-nakedness made her seem more helpless than seductive. She was long and loose-jointed; a puppeteer had cut her strings.
“My stepmother is a bitch,” she declared. “You know what that means, don’t you?”
“I’ve heard the word,” I acknowledged.
“What am I going to do?” she cried despairingly. “What am I going to do?”
Never let it be said that A. McNally failed to respond to a damsel in distress. But when the damsel in question appears to be a certifiable loony—well, it does give one pause, does it not?
“What seems to be the problem, Miss Hawkin?” I asked, speaking as slowly and softly as possible.
My soothing manner had the desired effect. She suddenly began talking rationally and with some good sense.
“Money,” she said. “Isn’t that always the problem?”
“Not always,” I said, “but frequently. Surely your father left you well-provided for.”
“I have a trust fund,” she admitted, “but I can’t touch it until I turn twenty-one.”
That was a shocker. I had guessed her to be in the mid-twenties. “How old are you, Miss Hawkin?” I asked gently.
“Nineteen,” she said. “I look older, don’t I?”
“Not at all,” I said gallantly.
“I know I do,” she said defiantly. “But you don’t know what my life has been like. When daddy was alive, money made no difference. He was very generous. Anything I wanted. But now I’m totally dependent on her. My food, the house, spending money— everything. It just kills me.”
“Surely you have relatives or friends who’d be willing to help out.”
She shook her head. “No one. I’m on my own, and I’m frightened, I admit it.”
“Don’t be frightened,” I counseled her, “because then you won’t be able to think clearly. You must keep your nerve and review your options calmly and logically as if you were called upon to advise someone else.”
She looked at me queerly. “Yes,” she said, “you’re right. If I have the courage to act I can solve my own problems, can’t I?”
“Of course. Courage and energy: That’s what it takes.”
She laughed. I didn’t like that laugh. It came perilously close to being a hysterical giggle.
“Thank you, Archy,” she said. “I may call you Archy, mayn’t I?”
“I’d be delighted.”
“And you
I glanced toward the studio building. It seemed to be unguarded, and the crime scene tape drooped in the heat. I wandered over and tried the scarred oak and etched glass door, but it was locked. I turned away, then heard a “Psst!” that whirled me back. Marcia Hawkin was standing in the opened doorway, beckoning to me.
She drew me inside, then locked the door after us.
“What did she tell you?” she said fiercely.
Bewilderment time. “Who?” I asked.
“Her,” she said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the main house. “Did she say anything about me?”
“Not a word,” I assured her. “We had a very brief conversation about your father’s work.”
She clutched my arm and pulled me into the sitting area on the ground level. She leaned close and almost whispered. “She’s a dreadful woman. Dreadful! Don’t believe anything she says. Do you want a drink?”
“I think I better,” I said, and she went into the kitchenette. I watched with horror as she poured me a tumbler of warm vodka.
“Miss Hawkin,” I said, “if I drink that I’ll be non compos mentis. Please let me do it.”
I moved to the sink and mixed myself a mild vodka and water with plenty of ice. Meanwhile Marcia had thrown herself on the couch and lay sprawled, biting furiously at a fingernail. An Ophelia, I decided.
It would be difficult to describe her costume in detail without sounding indecent. I shall merely say that she wore an oversized white singlet, soiled and possibly belonging to her dead father, and denim shorts chopped off so radically that they hardly constituted a loincloth. But her lanky semi-nakedness made her seem more helpless than seductive. She was long and loose-jointed; a puppeteer had cut her strings.
“My stepmother is a bitch,” she declared. “You know what that means, don’t you?”
“I’ve heard the word,” I acknowledged.
“What am I going to do?” she cried despairingly. “What am I going to do?”
Never let it be said that A. McNally failed to respond to a damsel in distress. But when the damsel in question appears to be a certifiable loony—well, it does give one pause, does it not?
“What seems to be the problem, Miss Hawkin?” I asked, speaking as slowly and softly as possible.
My soothing manner had the desired effect. She suddenly began talking rationally and with some good sense.
“Money,” she said. “Isn’t that always the problem?”
“Not always,” I said, “but frequently. Surely your father left you well-provided for.”
“I have a trust fund,” she admitted, “but I can’t touch it until I turn twenty-one.”
That was a shocker. I had guessed her to be in the mid-twenties. “How old are you, Miss Hawkin?” I asked gently.
“Nineteen,” she said. “I look older, don’t I?”
“Not at all,” I said gallantly.
“I know I do,” she said defiantly. “But you don’t know what my life has been like. When daddy was alive, money made no difference. He was very generous. Anything I wanted. But now I’m totally dependent on her. My food, the house, spending money— everything. It just kills me.”
“Surely you have relatives or friends who’d be willing to help out.”
She shook her head. “No one. I’m on my own, and I’m frightened, I admit it.”
“Don’t be frightened,” I counseled her, “because then you won’t be able to think clearly. You must keep your nerve and review your options calmly and logically as if you were called upon to advise someone else.”
She looked at me queerly. “Yes,” she said, “you’re right. If I have the courage to act I can solve my own problems, can’t I?”
“Of course. Courage and energy: That’s what it takes.”
She laughed. I didn’t like that laugh. It came perilously close to being a hysterical giggle.
“Thank you, Archy,” she said. “I may call you Archy, mayn’t I?”
“I’d be delighted.”
“And you
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