The End of the Pier by Martha Grimes Page B

annoying—I mean, when I hear someone pronounce it who’s read it, or just looks at the name on my desk. I have to keep correcting them.”
    Soul mate, her eyes said. Oh, she knew all about that problem. “Carl, shut that damn thing off. I never could make out what those fools was doing, anyways.”
    Butts made no move, beyond mumbling something about “the damned fools.” He referred to her as “Ma Gris” as if his mother-in-law were a French perfume.
    Sam had seen five minutes now and then of this soap because it was Florence’s favorite. Walking through the living room, coming or going out, he’d picked up bits and pieces. Now he said, pointing his cigarette at the screen, “I think she’s supposed to be in love with that doctor there. Only he’s married. That’s what she’s tearing her hair out about.”
    â€œFloozy,” said Ma Gris, rocking, arms crossed, hands holding her elbows.
    â€œIt ain’t her causing the trouble,” said Butts, topping another tallboy. “It’s him —it’s that intern or whatever. Want a Bud?” He held up a can and Sam thanked him kindly. Butts tossed it to him. “Bunch of assholes, anyway.”
    â€œSo shut it off. I wish to talk to Mr.—” Carefully, she said “DeGheyn,” as if the word were a delicate china cup that might crack under the weight of the two syllables.
    Sam did not want the set shut off; it might provide him with an opening. Inclining his head toward the women who were rabbiting away near the nurses’ station, he said, “Now, that one looks like that woman on ‘Dynasty.’ ”
    Ma Gris’s head swiveled round to the screen; her eyes narrowedto slits, as if even this were a suspicious statement. “What woman’s that?”
    Sam thought for a second. “Angela—something?”
    â€œThat ain’t ‘Dynasty,’ ” she said, spitting it out.
    â€œÂ â€˜Falcon Crest,’ ” said Butts, scratching at his belly. “That’s Jane Wyman you’re talking about. This one don’t look like her, does she, Ma Gris?”
    Hell, thought Sam. Well, given in his whole life he’d clocked up maybe one full hour of the soaps, he thought he was doing pretty damned well. Nothing lost; let them chew over Jane.
    â€œI got no use for that woman, none,” Ma Gris said in deadly level tones. “Do you know she divorced our President.” A sort of hissing whisper emphasized the devilish nature of Jane Wyman’s treacherous deed. “And let me tell you something.” She leaned forward and tapped Sam on the knee with a ridged fingernail. “The Betty Kelleys of this world, they ought to be drawn and quartered, drawn and quartered, think they can sling dirt against our President’s wife.” Ma Gris rocked furiously, arms locked forth-rightly across her skinny chest, nodding to Sam as if in approbation of his, not her, judgment.
    â€œWhat the hell you going on about, Ma Gris? Who’s Betty—?”
    â€œDo not swear at me, Carl Butts. It’s that blond-headed floozie of which I speak.”
    Sam quickly got out his pack of gum and shoved a stick into his mouth, clearing his throat and also biting the tender flesh of the inside of his upper lip. A week’s pay, step right up to the bat and give a week’s pay, he thought, to have Maud listening to this. When he could trust himself to speak, he said, “I most certainly agree. Gossips like her deserve to be horse-whipped.” His mind was clicking, clicking over any way to introduce the topic of murder. The attempt on Reagan’s life might do, but any venturing near the Reagan household, with Ma Gris in the party, could have him here until the snows came to cover him up. And no closer would he be to Loreen Grizzell Butts.
    The charge of “floozie” came this time from Carl Butts, who hadn’t