immobile, looking, waiting, with my heart revving in my throat, as though the day of judgment were approaching. Through the yellowing curtains made of some material akin to cheesecloth, I saw Brad’s screen door open. He stalked out and came directly to my cottage. It took an act of concentrated will to turn my smile into a sneer of disdain.
Three imperative knocks sounded, and before I had time to answer, he wrenched the door open and strode in, wearing a scowl. But it was an actor’s scowl, which didn’t quite conceal the wary light in his eyes. “I’m back,” he announced.
“Whoopee! You should have notified me; I’d have had a brass band waiting.”
“I see you haven’t gotten over your snit yet.”
“I was not in a snit. Snit doesn’t begin to describe it.”
The adrenaline started pumping at the memory of my problems, all of them caused by this man, who walked in as if he owned the place.
“I’d like to know what you’re so fired up about,” he said. His voice was rising toward a shout. There were traces of weariness about him in the wrinkled brow beaded with perspiration, the tie pulled down six inches from the collar. His trousers had lost their knife crease. These sartorial lapses appealed to my mothering instinct. My fingers wanted to soothe away the furrows in his brow.
“Use that hyperactive imagination!” I challenged. “It’s your breaking into my cottage and stealing my manuscript and research for your book that I’m fired up about, Mr. Mason.”
“Are you saying I’m that illiterate hack, Mason, again?”
“If the Gucci fits! And furthermore, I want my polka dot nude back, and my typewriter.” Forgetful of the open windows and the proximity to Simcoe, my voice rose too.
His eyes widened and his mouth fell open at the same time, giving him an imbecilic expression. His glance flew to the empty table, the unadorned wall, then around the room to look for other losses. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded.
“Just what you think. You’d better hand them over, before I call the police.”
“You mean you’ve been burgled and didn’t call the cops?” He was dumbfounded.
“Of course I called them. They’re looking for you right now. I might as well give them a buzz and tell them you’re here. Unless you care to hand over my belongings?” I took a step toward the phone.
“I haven’t got them. I haven’t seen them. I’m not Mason,” he said. His eyes glittered with a mixture of emotions, of which I suspect ill-natured joy made up some part.
I continued my march to the phone. “We’ll let the police decide that.”
He paced quickly after me and grabbed my hand as it reached for the phone. “Don’t make a complete fool of yourself, Audrey. I don’t know what happened here, but I was nowhere in the vicinity, and I can prove it if necessary.”
“I already figured out you used an accomplice.”
“I wonder if it was Mason?” he murmured, mostly to himself.
I shook off his hand and turned on him. “It was Mason all right. Who else would bother to steal my research?”
“From the glimpse I had of it, I could name half a dozen people. Supreme Court judges, presidential candidates, to name a few.”
“They wouldn’t steal my polka dot nude.”
“Neither would Mason. Use your head, woman,” he said impatiently. My blood started to simmer at this arrogant speech. “Why would Mason bother nicking a typewriter and a picture? Mason’s loaded.”
“That was to make it look like an ordinary robbery. Presidential candidates and Supreme Court judges wouldn’t steal them either.”
“What did the cops say?”
“They’re looking into it.”
“They might pick up the typewriter from the serial number. It’ll turn up in a pawnshop somewhere eventually,” Brad said.
“I can’t wait that long. I need my things now, today.”
“What’s the serial number? I’ll check out the secondhand dealers in the Yellow Pages and phone them to keep
Three imperative knocks sounded, and before I had time to answer, he wrenched the door open and strode in, wearing a scowl. But it was an actor’s scowl, which didn’t quite conceal the wary light in his eyes. “I’m back,” he announced.
“Whoopee! You should have notified me; I’d have had a brass band waiting.”
“I see you haven’t gotten over your snit yet.”
“I was not in a snit. Snit doesn’t begin to describe it.”
The adrenaline started pumping at the memory of my problems, all of them caused by this man, who walked in as if he owned the place.
“I’d like to know what you’re so fired up about,” he said. His voice was rising toward a shout. There were traces of weariness about him in the wrinkled brow beaded with perspiration, the tie pulled down six inches from the collar. His trousers had lost their knife crease. These sartorial lapses appealed to my mothering instinct. My fingers wanted to soothe away the furrows in his brow.
“Use that hyperactive imagination!” I challenged. “It’s your breaking into my cottage and stealing my manuscript and research for your book that I’m fired up about, Mr. Mason.”
“Are you saying I’m that illiterate hack, Mason, again?”
“If the Gucci fits! And furthermore, I want my polka dot nude back, and my typewriter.” Forgetful of the open windows and the proximity to Simcoe, my voice rose too.
His eyes widened and his mouth fell open at the same time, giving him an imbecilic expression. His glance flew to the empty table, the unadorned wall, then around the room to look for other losses. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded.
“Just what you think. You’d better hand them over, before I call the police.”
“You mean you’ve been burgled and didn’t call the cops?” He was dumbfounded.
“Of course I called them. They’re looking for you right now. I might as well give them a buzz and tell them you’re here. Unless you care to hand over my belongings?” I took a step toward the phone.
“I haven’t got them. I haven’t seen them. I’m not Mason,” he said. His eyes glittered with a mixture of emotions, of which I suspect ill-natured joy made up some part.
I continued my march to the phone. “We’ll let the police decide that.”
He paced quickly after me and grabbed my hand as it reached for the phone. “Don’t make a complete fool of yourself, Audrey. I don’t know what happened here, but I was nowhere in the vicinity, and I can prove it if necessary.”
“I already figured out you used an accomplice.”
“I wonder if it was Mason?” he murmured, mostly to himself.
I shook off his hand and turned on him. “It was Mason all right. Who else would bother to steal my research?”
“From the glimpse I had of it, I could name half a dozen people. Supreme Court judges, presidential candidates, to name a few.”
“They wouldn’t steal my polka dot nude.”
“Neither would Mason. Use your head, woman,” he said impatiently. My blood started to simmer at this arrogant speech. “Why would Mason bother nicking a typewriter and a picture? Mason’s loaded.”
“That was to make it look like an ordinary robbery. Presidential candidates and Supreme Court judges wouldn’t steal them either.”
“What did the cops say?”
“They’re looking into it.”
“They might pick up the typewriter from the serial number. It’ll turn up in a pawnshop somewhere eventually,” Brad said.
“I can’t wait that long. I need my things now, today.”
“What’s the serial number? I’ll check out the secondhand dealers in the Yellow Pages and phone them to keep
Similar Books
