must call me Squirrel,” she said. “That’s what daddy always called me.”
“What an unusual nickname,” I said, smiling.
“You think so?” she challenged, and abruptly she was back in her manic mood again. “I see nothing unusual about it. You just don’t understand. No one can ever understand. I think you better go now.”
My first impression had been correct: definitely an Ophelia.
I finished my drink hastily, bid her a polite farewell, and left her still sprawled, starting on another fingernail. I was thankful to be going. Those moments with her were too intense, too charged with things unsaid, furies suppressed and threatening to break loose.
I drove away without a backward glance. The master of that home might be deceased but it was still the Villa Bile.
When I arrived at the McNally digs, a much happier household, I found Jamie Olson in the garage hosing down my mother’s antique wood-bodied Ford station wagon. He was smoking one of his ancient briars, the one with the cracked shank wrapped with a Band-Aid.
“Jamie,” I said, “Mrs. Jane Folsby was the live-in at Silas Hawkin’s residence, but she has suddenly left their employ. Do you think you can find out where she’s gone?”
“Mebbe,” he said.
“Try,” I urged. “She’s a nice lady, and I’d like to talk to her.”
I had a pleasant ocean swim, the family cocktail hour that followed was just as enjoyable, and dinner that night capped my pleasure. Mother went upstairs for an evening of television in the sitting room, father retired to his study to continue his wrestle with Dickens, and I climbed to my suite to update my journal, sip a small marc, and listen to a tape of Hoagy Carmichael singing “Star Dust.”
It was a normal evening at the McNally manse, all quiet, peaceful, content. But just when you start believing the drawbridge is up, the castle is inviolate, and the rude world can’t possibly intrude, along comes leering fate to deliver a swift kick to your gluteus maximus.
On that particular evening the boot came at approximately 9:30 P.M. in the form of a phone call from Sgt. Al Rogoff. He spent no time on greetings.
“I’m beginning to wonder about you,” he said.
“Are you?” I said, thinking he was joshing. “Wonder about what?”
“Do you know a guy named Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth? Lives in Palm Beach.”
“Of course I know him,” I said. “He and his mother are clients of McNally and Son.”
“Uh-huh. And do you know a woman named Shirley Feebling? In Fort Lauderdale.”
“I don’t know her,” I said warily, beginning to get antsy about this conversation. “I met her once for an hour. Why the third degree, Al?”
“Son,” he said, “you’re just too free with your business cards. About an hour ago I got a call from a dick I know who works out of Lauderdale Homicide. This afternoon they found Shirley Feebling in her condo shot through the back of her head. Much dead. They also found your business card and a batch of hot letters from this Smythe-Hersforth character.”
I closed my eyes. Her T-shirt had been lettered PEACE. What a way to find it.
“Your father still awake?” Rogoff asked.
“Of course he’s still awake. It’s only nine-thirty.”
“I think I better come over,” he said. “Okay?”
“Don’t tell me I’m a suspect,” I said with a shaky laugh.
“Right now you and Smythe-Hersforth are the only leads that Lauderdale’s got. I promised to check you out, both of you. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“I guess,” I said, sighing. “The second time my business card has landed me in the soup. You’re correct, Al; I’ve got to stop handing them out. Sure, come on over.”
“Be there in fifteen minutes,” he said and hung up.
I sat there a few moments remembering that ingenuous and not too bright young woman with her firm belief in True Love and a sunny future. It didn’t take long for sadness and regret to become anger and a seething desire for vengeance. The
“What an unusual nickname,” I said, smiling.
“You think so?” she challenged, and abruptly she was back in her manic mood again. “I see nothing unusual about it. You just don’t understand. No one can ever understand. I think you better go now.”
My first impression had been correct: definitely an Ophelia.
I finished my drink hastily, bid her a polite farewell, and left her still sprawled, starting on another fingernail. I was thankful to be going. Those moments with her were too intense, too charged with things unsaid, furies suppressed and threatening to break loose.
I drove away without a backward glance. The master of that home might be deceased but it was still the Villa Bile.
When I arrived at the McNally digs, a much happier household, I found Jamie Olson in the garage hosing down my mother’s antique wood-bodied Ford station wagon. He was smoking one of his ancient briars, the one with the cracked shank wrapped with a Band-Aid.
“Jamie,” I said, “Mrs. Jane Folsby was the live-in at Silas Hawkin’s residence, but she has suddenly left their employ. Do you think you can find out where she’s gone?”
“Mebbe,” he said.
“Try,” I urged. “She’s a nice lady, and I’d like to talk to her.”
I had a pleasant ocean swim, the family cocktail hour that followed was just as enjoyable, and dinner that night capped my pleasure. Mother went upstairs for an evening of television in the sitting room, father retired to his study to continue his wrestle with Dickens, and I climbed to my suite to update my journal, sip a small marc, and listen to a tape of Hoagy Carmichael singing “Star Dust.”
It was a normal evening at the McNally manse, all quiet, peaceful, content. But just when you start believing the drawbridge is up, the castle is inviolate, and the rude world can’t possibly intrude, along comes leering fate to deliver a swift kick to your gluteus maximus.
On that particular evening the boot came at approximately 9:30 P.M. in the form of a phone call from Sgt. Al Rogoff. He spent no time on greetings.
“I’m beginning to wonder about you,” he said.
“Are you?” I said, thinking he was joshing. “Wonder about what?”
“Do you know a guy named Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth? Lives in Palm Beach.”
“Of course I know him,” I said. “He and his mother are clients of McNally and Son.”
“Uh-huh. And do you know a woman named Shirley Feebling? In Fort Lauderdale.”
“I don’t know her,” I said warily, beginning to get antsy about this conversation. “I met her once for an hour. Why the third degree, Al?”
“Son,” he said, “you’re just too free with your business cards. About an hour ago I got a call from a dick I know who works out of Lauderdale Homicide. This afternoon they found Shirley Feebling in her condo shot through the back of her head. Much dead. They also found your business card and a batch of hot letters from this Smythe-Hersforth character.”
I closed my eyes. Her T-shirt had been lettered PEACE. What a way to find it.
“Your father still awake?” Rogoff asked.
“Of course he’s still awake. It’s only nine-thirty.”
“I think I better come over,” he said. “Okay?”
“Don’t tell me I’m a suspect,” I said with a shaky laugh.
“Right now you and Smythe-Hersforth are the only leads that Lauderdale’s got. I promised to check you out, both of you. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“I guess,” I said, sighing. “The second time my business card has landed me in the soup. You’re correct, Al; I’ve got to stop handing them out. Sure, come on over.”
“Be there in fifteen minutes,” he said and hung up.
I sat there a few moments remembering that ingenuous and not too bright young woman with her firm belief in True Love and a sunny future. It didn’t take long for sadness and regret to become anger and a seething desire for vengeance. The
Similar Books
