Read Online A Tan & Sandy Silence by John D. MacDonald - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John D. MacDonald
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total was not over twenty-five homes right on Blue Heron Lane. The Broll house was in the middle of the middle block on the left. The canal ran behind the houses on the left hand side, following the curves. Dig a canal and you have instant waterfront.
I made the logical moves. I parked the Plymouth in the Broll driveway, tried the doorbell, then tried the neighbors, the nearest ones first.
"I can't help you at all. We moved in here three weeks ago, all the way from Omaha, and that house has been empty since we moved in, and from any sign of neighborliness from anybody else around here, all the houses might as well be empty, if you ask me."
"Go away. I don't open the door to anyone. Go away."
"Mrs. Broll? Someone said they split up. No, we weren't friendly. I wouldn't have any idea where you could find her."
At the fourth front door-the fifth if you count the place where nobody answered-there was a slight tweak at the baited end of my line.
"I guess the one to ask would be Mrs. Dressner. Holly Dressner. She and Mrs. Broll were all the time visiting back and forth, morning coffee and so forth. That's the next house there, number 29, if she's home. She probably is. I didn't hear her backing out."
After the second try on the doorbell I was about to give up. I could hear the chimes inside. No answer. Then the intercom speaker fastened to the rough-cut cypress board beside the front Page 27
door clicked and said, "Who is it? And, for God's sake, just stand there and talk in a normal tone of voice. If you get close to the speaker and yell, I won't understand word one."
I gave my spiel, adding that the lady next door told me she would be the one to ask. She asked me if I had a card, and she had me poke it through the mail slot. I wondered why she sounded so out of breath.
I heard chains and locks, and she pulled the door open and said, "So come in." She wore a floorlength terry robe in wide yellow and white stripes, tightly belted. Her short, blond, water-dark hair was soaked. "I was in the pool. Daily discipline. Come on out onto the terrace.
I'm too wet to sit in the living room."
She was a stocky woman with good shoulders and a slender waist. She had a tan, freckled face, broad and good humored, pale lashes and brows, pretty eyes. The terrace was screened, and the big pool took up most of the space. Sliding glass doors opened the terrace up into the living room. The yard beyond the screening and beyond the flowerbeds sloped down to a small concrete dock where a canopied Whaler was moored.
She invited me to sit across from her at a wrought iron table with a glass top.
"Try that on me again, Mr. McGee. Slowly. Is this the check?"
She picked it up and put it down and listened as I went through it again. "A claim for what?" she asked.
"Mrs. Dressner, it's company policy not to discuss casualty claims and settlements. I'm sure you can understand why."
"Mr. McGee, may I ask you a personal question?"
"Of course."
"How come you are so full of bullshit?"
I stared at her merry face and merry smile. But above the smile the hazel eyes were expressionless as poker chips.
"I ... I don't quite understand."
"Go back to Harry and tell him that this didn't work, either. What does he think I am? Some kind of idiot, maybe? Good-by, Mr. McGee."
"This isn't for Harry. This is for me."
"So who the hell are you?"
"How friendly are you with Mary anyway?"
"Very very very. Okay?"
"What happened to her when Wally got killed?"
She frowned at me. "She came apart. She flipped."
"And a man took her on a boat ride?"
"Right. And the way she talked about him, that's the one she should have played house with instead of Harry Broll."
"I almost thought about it seriously."
"You?"
"Travis McGee. The Busted Flush. Cruised the Keys and up the west coast to Tampa Bay.
Taught her to sail. Taught her to read a chart. Taught her to navigate."
She put her determined chin on her fist and stared at me. "That was the name. You, huh? So what's
I made the logical moves. I parked the Plymouth in the Broll driveway, tried the doorbell, then tried the neighbors, the nearest ones first.
"I can't help you at all. We moved in here three weeks ago, all the way from Omaha, and that house has been empty since we moved in, and from any sign of neighborliness from anybody else around here, all the houses might as well be empty, if you ask me."
"Go away. I don't open the door to anyone. Go away."
"Mrs. Broll? Someone said they split up. No, we weren't friendly. I wouldn't have any idea where you could find her."
At the fourth front door-the fifth if you count the place where nobody answered-there was a slight tweak at the baited end of my line.
"I guess the one to ask would be Mrs. Dressner. Holly Dressner. She and Mrs. Broll were all the time visiting back and forth, morning coffee and so forth. That's the next house there, number 29, if she's home. She probably is. I didn't hear her backing out."
After the second try on the doorbell I was about to give up. I could hear the chimes inside. No answer. Then the intercom speaker fastened to the rough-cut cypress board beside the front Page 27
door clicked and said, "Who is it? And, for God's sake, just stand there and talk in a normal tone of voice. If you get close to the speaker and yell, I won't understand word one."
I gave my spiel, adding that the lady next door told me she would be the one to ask. She asked me if I had a card, and she had me poke it through the mail slot. I wondered why she sounded so out of breath.
I heard chains and locks, and she pulled the door open and said, "So come in." She wore a floorlength terry robe in wide yellow and white stripes, tightly belted. Her short, blond, water-dark hair was soaked. "I was in the pool. Daily discipline. Come on out onto the terrace.
I'm too wet to sit in the living room."
She was a stocky woman with good shoulders and a slender waist. She had a tan, freckled face, broad and good humored, pale lashes and brows, pretty eyes. The terrace was screened, and the big pool took up most of the space. Sliding glass doors opened the terrace up into the living room. The yard beyond the screening and beyond the flowerbeds sloped down to a small concrete dock where a canopied Whaler was moored.
She invited me to sit across from her at a wrought iron table with a glass top.
"Try that on me again, Mr. McGee. Slowly. Is this the check?"
She picked it up and put it down and listened as I went through it again. "A claim for what?" she asked.
"Mrs. Dressner, it's company policy not to discuss casualty claims and settlements. I'm sure you can understand why."
"Mr. McGee, may I ask you a personal question?"
"Of course."
"How come you are so full of bullshit?"
I stared at her merry face and merry smile. But above the smile the hazel eyes were expressionless as poker chips.
"I ... I don't quite understand."
"Go back to Harry and tell him that this didn't work, either. What does he think I am? Some kind of idiot, maybe? Good-by, Mr. McGee."
"This isn't for Harry. This is for me."
"So who the hell are you?"
"How friendly are you with Mary anyway?"
"Very very very. Okay?"
"What happened to her when Wally got killed?"
She frowned at me. "She came apart. She flipped."
"And a man took her on a boat ride?"
"Right. And the way she talked about him, that's the one she should have played house with instead of Harry Broll."
"I almost thought about it seriously."
"You?"
"Travis McGee. The Busted Flush. Cruised the Keys and up the west coast to Tampa Bay.
Taught her to sail. Taught her to read a chart. Taught her to navigate."
She put her determined chin on her fist and stared at me. "That was the name. You, huh? So what's