Read Online A Stiff Critique by Jaqueline Girdner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jaqueline Girdner
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near half the size of my house. And my house isn’t all that big.”
“The prestigious address is worth it to Nan,” Carrie informed me. “Not to mention the proximity to Slade’s house. I’ll bet she kept an eagle eye on him from her ever-so-tiny but well-furnished living room.”
I turned to Carrie again. “If Nan was this close, do you suppose…”
Carrie shrugged as I let the question peter out.
“I spoke to Donna,” she said. “Donna tells me she is glad she gave everyone a hard copy of her manuscript. Apparently, the family’s hoods broke into her place Sunday and took all of her papers. She’s certain they are the same men who visited my house on Saturday evening. However, she still has the text of her manuscript stored on her computer. She will be handing out floppy disks this evening.”
That was the end of Carrie’s lecture. She didn’t say anything more as she took the last few turns of the road and then pulled her car over to the curb to park neatly behind a Honda Civic.
But she gave my shoulder a quick squeeze before she opened the slatted gate in front of Mave’s house. I wasn’t sure if the squeeze was for my benefit or hers, but I appreciated it. We walked side by side up the flagstone path to Mave’s front door. The house itself was a modest Victorian box set in the center of its modest quarter-acre lot. I was admiring a bed of begonias near the front door when I suddenly wondered how Mave could afford even this relatively small hunk of Hutton.
“Inherited,” Carrie whispered, as if I’d voiced the question aloud.
Then the front door flew open and Mave peered out at us. For all her wrinkles and gray hair, there was something childlike about her gaze. Maybe it was the roundness of her eyes under her violet-rimmed glasses.
“Hi, Mave,” I greeted her self-consciously. My mouth felt dry suddenly. Did she know I was here as a spy?
“Howdy there, Kate,” she returned my greeting, her voice rasping pleasantly. She reached out and clasped my hand in a firm grip for a moment.
Then she told Carrie “Howdy” too and led the way through the doorway and down the hall to a living room decorated in shades of lavender, mauve and pale yellow. Black and white photographs covered the far wall. I would have liked to examine them but my eyes were drawn to the members of the critique group who stood in two small clusters in front of us. Nan Millard was the closest.
“The condo in San Ricardo is just adorable. And it has oodles and oodles of space for a writer,” she was telling Russell Wu. She waved a tan hand in his expressionless face, clanking chunky gold bracelets as she did. “Why you stay in that dumpy little apartment when you could…”
“Nan’s trying to sell that poor critter real estate again,” Mave whispered in my ear.
I chuckled, then swallowed uneasily. Was Nan a murderer? Was Russell?
I turned my eyes to the other little group. Vicky Andros and Joyce Larson stood quietly listening to Travis as he ranted and pounded a fist into his palm.
“…these fascists from the California Beef Council are telling ignorant little kids that meat’s good for you!” he told them.
Joyce nodded thoughtfully. I watched her and wondered if she actually paid someone to perm her hair and dye it that ghastly shade of black. It certainly didn’t look natural, especially with her pale blue eyes. But then her blue eyes were covered by the oversized glasses she wore. I chided myself. This was a good woman. She didn’t have to be good-looking too.
“It’s time to do something!” Travis ranted on. “We can’t let those poor little kids listen to lies.” He turned his head to include Vicky in his broadcast.
Vicky didn’t nod thoughtfully. She just wrapped her arms around herself and hugged. She was so thin, she could have wrapped them around twice.
“I say we picket supermarkets,” Travis went on. “Hit them in the pocketbook—”
But the sound of running footsteps behind us
“The prestigious address is worth it to Nan,” Carrie informed me. “Not to mention the proximity to Slade’s house. I’ll bet she kept an eagle eye on him from her ever-so-tiny but well-furnished living room.”
I turned to Carrie again. “If Nan was this close, do you suppose…”
Carrie shrugged as I let the question peter out.
“I spoke to Donna,” she said. “Donna tells me she is glad she gave everyone a hard copy of her manuscript. Apparently, the family’s hoods broke into her place Sunday and took all of her papers. She’s certain they are the same men who visited my house on Saturday evening. However, she still has the text of her manuscript stored on her computer. She will be handing out floppy disks this evening.”
That was the end of Carrie’s lecture. She didn’t say anything more as she took the last few turns of the road and then pulled her car over to the curb to park neatly behind a Honda Civic.
But she gave my shoulder a quick squeeze before she opened the slatted gate in front of Mave’s house. I wasn’t sure if the squeeze was for my benefit or hers, but I appreciated it. We walked side by side up the flagstone path to Mave’s front door. The house itself was a modest Victorian box set in the center of its modest quarter-acre lot. I was admiring a bed of begonias near the front door when I suddenly wondered how Mave could afford even this relatively small hunk of Hutton.
“Inherited,” Carrie whispered, as if I’d voiced the question aloud.
Then the front door flew open and Mave peered out at us. For all her wrinkles and gray hair, there was something childlike about her gaze. Maybe it was the roundness of her eyes under her violet-rimmed glasses.
“Hi, Mave,” I greeted her self-consciously. My mouth felt dry suddenly. Did she know I was here as a spy?
“Howdy there, Kate,” she returned my greeting, her voice rasping pleasantly. She reached out and clasped my hand in a firm grip for a moment.
Then she told Carrie “Howdy” too and led the way through the doorway and down the hall to a living room decorated in shades of lavender, mauve and pale yellow. Black and white photographs covered the far wall. I would have liked to examine them but my eyes were drawn to the members of the critique group who stood in two small clusters in front of us. Nan Millard was the closest.
“The condo in San Ricardo is just adorable. And it has oodles and oodles of space for a writer,” she was telling Russell Wu. She waved a tan hand in his expressionless face, clanking chunky gold bracelets as she did. “Why you stay in that dumpy little apartment when you could…”
“Nan’s trying to sell that poor critter real estate again,” Mave whispered in my ear.
I chuckled, then swallowed uneasily. Was Nan a murderer? Was Russell?
I turned my eyes to the other little group. Vicky Andros and Joyce Larson stood quietly listening to Travis as he ranted and pounded a fist into his palm.
“…these fascists from the California Beef Council are telling ignorant little kids that meat’s good for you!” he told them.
Joyce nodded thoughtfully. I watched her and wondered if she actually paid someone to perm her hair and dye it that ghastly shade of black. It certainly didn’t look natural, especially with her pale blue eyes. But then her blue eyes were covered by the oversized glasses she wore. I chided myself. This was a good woman. She didn’t have to be good-looking too.
“It’s time to do something!” Travis ranted on. “We can’t let those poor little kids listen to lies.” He turned his head to include Vicky in his broadcast.
Vicky didn’t nod thoughtfully. She just wrapped her arms around herself and hugged. She was so thin, she could have wrapped them around twice.
“I say we picket supermarkets,” Travis went on. “Hit them in the pocketbook—”
But the sound of running footsteps behind us
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