a moment. There was no movement from upstairs.
“Open this door!” came the voice from the porch, followed by a rapping on the window. “Your car is apparent! Don’t pretend! You’ll find yourself living under the bridge!”
Howard sat very still. He heard the sound of something scraping on the porch—the rocker being hauled aside—and then someone’s face, just a slice of it, appeared in the window beyond the one-inch gap between the curtains. “I can see the back of your head, Roy Barton!”
“That’s not me!” shouted Uncle Roy. “I have my
lawyer
in here! He’s a bulldog when he’s riled up! He’s come up from San Francisco, and he means business. With a
capital B!”
The woman laughed, high and shrill. “Send him out!” she shouted, banging on the window again. Howard saw that Aunt Edith had descended the stairs now, carrying her purse.
“Put that damned thing away!” Uncle Roy hissed. Then to Howard he said, “Never let them see the color of money. Drives them wild—like the scent of blood to a shark. They won’t resttill they’ve torn your belly out.” He nodded toward the porch. “It’s the landlady.”
Howard nodded. “Wait here,” he said, getting up and heading for the door.
Uncle Roy grabbed his pant leg. “Just let her rant,” he said. “She’ll tire out and go away. We’ve got to hold her off until after Halloween. I’m going to make a killing on the haunted house, and then we can pay her.”
“I see,” Howard said, although actually he didn’t see anything at all. What haunted house? He found that he didn’t have any faith in the notion of his uncle’s making a killing, in haunted houses or otherwise. “Let me deal with her. I’ve handled her sort before.”
“She’s a bugbear …”
“Let me at her.”
“Go to town, then,” Uncle Roy said, letting go of Howard and sitting up a little straighter. “It’s all right,” he said to Aunt Edith, who still hesitated on the stairs. “Howard’s got a line on this woman. He’s just been telling me about it. He’ll settle her hash.”
Howard smiled and nodded at his aunt, mouthing the words “No problem” and opening the front door.
On the porch stood a tall thin woman in a red dress. She had the face of a pickle with an aquiline nose, and she glared at him from behind a pair of glasses with swept-back frames dotted with rhinestones. Immediately she tried to push him aside, to rush into the house. Howard forced her back out, weaving across in front of her and pulling the door shut as if he would happily crush her sideways if she didn’t move quickly. She folded her arms, seeming to swell up there on the ruined porch.
“If you’re a lawyer,” she said, looking him up and down, “I’m a Chinese magistrate.”
“Mr. Barton is willing to make a partial payment,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve advised him not to let the issue go to court.”
“Wise,” she said, eyeing him steadily. “A partial payment against what?”
Howard hesitated. He wasn’t sure what. Uncle Roy had said that this woman was the landlady, but what did that mean? Did this have something to do with Sylvia’s store, or with the house? It didn’t matter to him, really. “What do you recollect the total to be?”
“Recollect!
There’s a payment of four hundred-odd dollars a month against a principal of forty-two thousand at twelvepercent amortized over thirty years. The house is mine, my smarty-pants lawyer, unless he empties his pockets, which he can’t do, because they’re full of moths!”
“Calm down,” Howard said gently, laying a hand on her arm. “Try to relax.”
She whirled away, as if his hand were a snake. He smiled benignly, trying to put just the hint of puzzlement into his eyes, as if he were confused and sorry that she’d gotten so carried away. “Breathe regularly,” he advised her, using a soft, clinical psychologist’s voice—the sort of voice designed to drive sane people truly mad.
He
“Open this door!” came the voice from the porch, followed by a rapping on the window. “Your car is apparent! Don’t pretend! You’ll find yourself living under the bridge!”
Howard sat very still. He heard the sound of something scraping on the porch—the rocker being hauled aside—and then someone’s face, just a slice of it, appeared in the window beyond the one-inch gap between the curtains. “I can see the back of your head, Roy Barton!”
“That’s not me!” shouted Uncle Roy. “I have my
lawyer
in here! He’s a bulldog when he’s riled up! He’s come up from San Francisco, and he means business. With a
capital B!”
The woman laughed, high and shrill. “Send him out!” she shouted, banging on the window again. Howard saw that Aunt Edith had descended the stairs now, carrying her purse.
“Put that damned thing away!” Uncle Roy hissed. Then to Howard he said, “Never let them see the color of money. Drives them wild—like the scent of blood to a shark. They won’t resttill they’ve torn your belly out.” He nodded toward the porch. “It’s the landlady.”
Howard nodded. “Wait here,” he said, getting up and heading for the door.
Uncle Roy grabbed his pant leg. “Just let her rant,” he said. “She’ll tire out and go away. We’ve got to hold her off until after Halloween. I’m going to make a killing on the haunted house, and then we can pay her.”
“I see,” Howard said, although actually he didn’t see anything at all. What haunted house? He found that he didn’t have any faith in the notion of his uncle’s making a killing, in haunted houses or otherwise. “Let me deal with her. I’ve handled her sort before.”
“She’s a bugbear …”
“Let me at her.”
“Go to town, then,” Uncle Roy said, letting go of Howard and sitting up a little straighter. “It’s all right,” he said to Aunt Edith, who still hesitated on the stairs. “Howard’s got a line on this woman. He’s just been telling me about it. He’ll settle her hash.”
Howard smiled and nodded at his aunt, mouthing the words “No problem” and opening the front door.
On the porch stood a tall thin woman in a red dress. She had the face of a pickle with an aquiline nose, and she glared at him from behind a pair of glasses with swept-back frames dotted with rhinestones. Immediately she tried to push him aside, to rush into the house. Howard forced her back out, weaving across in front of her and pulling the door shut as if he would happily crush her sideways if she didn’t move quickly. She folded her arms, seeming to swell up there on the ruined porch.
“If you’re a lawyer,” she said, looking him up and down, “I’m a Chinese magistrate.”
“Mr. Barton is willing to make a partial payment,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve advised him not to let the issue go to court.”
“Wise,” she said, eyeing him steadily. “A partial payment against what?”
Howard hesitated. He wasn’t sure what. Uncle Roy had said that this woman was the landlady, but what did that mean? Did this have something to do with Sylvia’s store, or with the house? It didn’t matter to him, really. “What do you recollect the total to be?”
“Recollect!
There’s a payment of four hundred-odd dollars a month against a principal of forty-two thousand at twelvepercent amortized over thirty years. The house is mine, my smarty-pants lawyer, unless he empties his pockets, which he can’t do, because they’re full of moths!”
“Calm down,” Howard said gently, laying a hand on her arm. “Try to relax.”
She whirled away, as if his hand were a snake. He smiled benignly, trying to put just the hint of puzzlement into his eyes, as if he were confused and sorry that she’d gotten so carried away. “Breathe regularly,” he advised her, using a soft, clinical psychologist’s voice—the sort of voice designed to drive sane people truly mad.
He
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