Grace.
“I didn’t know anyone was using this room.”
I jumped a foot before realizing it wasn’t the suit of armor speaking to me. Spinning, I saw Harrison Crawford standing in the open doorway.
I patted my chest, catching my breath. “Hello, Mr. Crawford.”
“Hello, Brooklyn,” he said, sauntering into the room. “Please call me Harrison. I was just looking for a place to watch some TV and take a nap.”
“I’m not staying, so you’re welcome to use this room. I was just taking a tour and came upon this awesome suit of armor.”
“There’s a lot that’s awesome around this house,” he said. “It could keep you busy for a long time.”
“I know. Grace is an amazing collector.” I looked back at the shiny suit of armor. “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep with that guy staring at you?”
“It shouldn’t be a problem.” He chuckled. “My wife accuses me of being able to fall asleep anywhere.”
It figured that Madge would hold something as benign as that against him. “Is your wife going to join you in here?”
“Oh, hell, no,” he said in a rush. “She’s gone off for a walk in the woods. Said she wanted to do some bird watching. She’s perfectly happy trudging about on her own.”
Harrison was such a nice man. I was still trying to figure out what he saw in his unpleasant wife. I hated to be so negative—I was, after all, still trying to be a beacon of positivity—but I couldn’t seem to help it when it came to Madge. “Well, Harrison, I’ll leave you to your nap.”
“Ah, I’ll probably just watch the stock market returns.” He plopped on the couch, grabbed the remote control, and spread the newspaper out before him on the coffee table.
As I headed for the door, I took one last look around the room. That’s when I spied a messy pile of books on a console partially hidden by the open door.
“Wow,” I whispered. The books were classic noir fiction. “Pulp fiction.” I counted twenty-two of them. They were all paperbacks from the 1930s, ’40s and ’50s, by mystery authors like Agatha Christie, Mickey Spillane, Raymond Chandler, Erle Stanley Gardner, Dashiell Hammett, and others. They had the most fabulous, lurid covers imaginable, with scantily clad blondes and screaming redheads, bulging eyeballs, spilled cocktails, and black dial telephones.
The titles were wonderful, too, with some more suggestive than others.
Terror on the Train, Kiss Me at Midnight,Blondes Tell No Lies, Her Lips Were Blood Red, Call Me Wanton
.
One of the Agatha Christies,
4:50 from Paddington
, showed a woman’s body flying from a train. It was so delightfully graphic, I almost giggled aloud. Most of the books were originally priced at twenty-five to thirty-five cents, but now they could be worth hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars. Especially as a collection.
“What’s that you’ve got?” Harrison said.
“Some fantastic books.” I carefully scooped up all twenty-two of the little jewels. “I’m taking them to the library for some special attention.”
“That’s nice,” he said absently, and went back to his paper.
“See you later.” I left the room and almost rammed into Kiki out in the hall.
“Have you seen my dad?” she asked.
“Yes, he’s in there.” I jerked my head toward the sitting room where I’d left Harrison.
“Oh.” She glanced toward the door of the room. Then she frowned, but didn’t make a move to go in and see her father. “Do you need help with that stack?”
“That’s okay. I’m perfectly balanced right now.”
She smiled. “Okay, catch you later.”
I watched her walk into the room.
“Dad, we have to talk about Mom,” she said.
“I wish you girls would try to get along.”
“How can I when she’s trying to kill—”
That’s when Kiki closed the door.
What?
Damn! How was I supposed to eavesdrop on people if they closed the doors on me? I figured Kiki was just being an overly dramatic daughter talking about her mother, but
“I didn’t know anyone was using this room.”
I jumped a foot before realizing it wasn’t the suit of armor speaking to me. Spinning, I saw Harrison Crawford standing in the open doorway.
I patted my chest, catching my breath. “Hello, Mr. Crawford.”
“Hello, Brooklyn,” he said, sauntering into the room. “Please call me Harrison. I was just looking for a place to watch some TV and take a nap.”
“I’m not staying, so you’re welcome to use this room. I was just taking a tour and came upon this awesome suit of armor.”
“There’s a lot that’s awesome around this house,” he said. “It could keep you busy for a long time.”
“I know. Grace is an amazing collector.” I looked back at the shiny suit of armor. “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep with that guy staring at you?”
“It shouldn’t be a problem.” He chuckled. “My wife accuses me of being able to fall asleep anywhere.”
It figured that Madge would hold something as benign as that against him. “Is your wife going to join you in here?”
“Oh, hell, no,” he said in a rush. “She’s gone off for a walk in the woods. Said she wanted to do some bird watching. She’s perfectly happy trudging about on her own.”
Harrison was such a nice man. I was still trying to figure out what he saw in his unpleasant wife. I hated to be so negative—I was, after all, still trying to be a beacon of positivity—but I couldn’t seem to help it when it came to Madge. “Well, Harrison, I’ll leave you to your nap.”
“Ah, I’ll probably just watch the stock market returns.” He plopped on the couch, grabbed the remote control, and spread the newspaper out before him on the coffee table.
As I headed for the door, I took one last look around the room. That’s when I spied a messy pile of books on a console partially hidden by the open door.
“Wow,” I whispered. The books were classic noir fiction. “Pulp fiction.” I counted twenty-two of them. They were all paperbacks from the 1930s, ’40s and ’50s, by mystery authors like Agatha Christie, Mickey Spillane, Raymond Chandler, Erle Stanley Gardner, Dashiell Hammett, and others. They had the most fabulous, lurid covers imaginable, with scantily clad blondes and screaming redheads, bulging eyeballs, spilled cocktails, and black dial telephones.
The titles were wonderful, too, with some more suggestive than others.
Terror on the Train, Kiss Me at Midnight,Blondes Tell No Lies, Her Lips Were Blood Red, Call Me Wanton
.
One of the Agatha Christies,
4:50 from Paddington
, showed a woman’s body flying from a train. It was so delightfully graphic, I almost giggled aloud. Most of the books were originally priced at twenty-five to thirty-five cents, but now they could be worth hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars. Especially as a collection.
“What’s that you’ve got?” Harrison said.
“Some fantastic books.” I carefully scooped up all twenty-two of the little jewels. “I’m taking them to the library for some special attention.”
“That’s nice,” he said absently, and went back to his paper.
“See you later.” I left the room and almost rammed into Kiki out in the hall.
“Have you seen my dad?” she asked.
“Yes, he’s in there.” I jerked my head toward the sitting room where I’d left Harrison.
“Oh.” She glanced toward the door of the room. Then she frowned, but didn’t make a move to go in and see her father. “Do you need help with that stack?”
“That’s okay. I’m perfectly balanced right now.”
She smiled. “Okay, catch you later.”
I watched her walk into the room.
“Dad, we have to talk about Mom,” she said.
“I wish you girls would try to get along.”
“How can I when she’s trying to kill—”
That’s when Kiki closed the door.
What?
Damn! How was I supposed to eavesdrop on people if they closed the doors on me? I figured Kiki was just being an overly dramatic daughter talking about her mother, but
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