Read Online A Wild and Lonely Place by Marcia Muller - Free Book Online Page B

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     afternoon. I didn’t dare enlighten her; there was no telling how the news might affect her, and I’d risk her mother-in-law
     finding out about our meeting.
    Quickly I said, “At another consulate.”
    “Oh.”
    “As you were saying about Dave’s disappearance—”
    “I don’t want to talk about him anymore.” Then she made another erratic conversational detour and began a monologue about
     poetry. I hadn’t read much of it since high school and the few lines I’d once penned for a class assignment made Hallmark
     verses look like Shakespeare, but I couldn’t help being intrigued by Mavis’s talk about shaping ideas and emotions into poetic
     image. Intrigued, too, by the pleasure and excitement she displayed and how her hand never once strayed toward her glass of
     vodka. When I finally told her I had to leave and went to the door, she hurried after me and pressed a slender volume into
     my hand.
Laments and Victories,
by Mavis O’Donnell Hamid.
    “Thank you for listening,” she said. “I haven’t talked about my work for such a long time.”
    Impulsively I hugged her before I stepped into the hallway.
    Renshaw was leaning against an armoire by the far wall. As I closed the door he said, “What a touching display of sisterly
     affection.”
    “Listen, somebody ought to be a sister to that woman. This”—I gestured at Mavis’s room—“is a criminal situation!”
    “And not ours to interfere with.”
    “Probably not, but it makes me furious!” I clutched Mavis’s book tightly while we left the consulate, as if by protecting
     it I could somehow protect its author.
    We parted on the sidewalk, Gage heading toward the mobile unit up the hill and I to my nearby car. When I turned the key in
     the door lock I realized I’d left it open. Careless, McCone, too damn careless.
    As I slid behind the wheel and reached for my seat belt, a voice said, “Take me for a ride…please.”
    Even though it was a child’s voice, I briefly froze. Then I turned toward Habiba Hamid. She sat in the passenger’s seat, all
     buckled up and ready to go.
    “How did you get out?” I asked sternly.
    “I know lots of ways.” In the dim light I made out a sly grin that resembled her mother’s. She was a thin little girl—too
     thin, really—with shoulder-length black hair that curled under like mine and a slash of bangs across her forehead.
    “I’ll bet you do,” I said, “but it’s not too smart, particularly at night. And why are you in my car?”
    “I like red sports cars. My father used to have one. And you were nice to me yesterday. So tonight when I saw you drive up
     and you came in to see my mom, I snuck out.”
    I was nice to her. I’d winked, that was all. My God, the child’s life must be as empty as her mother’s.
    As if she knew what I was thinking, Habiba added, “Yesterday? When you winked?”
    “Yes?”
    “That used to be my mom’s signal when she wanted to see me for some special time together. She’d wink and say something like,
     ‘The flowers down at the gazebo are lovely this year,’ and then I’d know she’d be waiting there for me in an hour.”
    “You said ‘used to be.’ Doesn’t she do that anymore?”
    “Not for a long time, she hasn’t. She doesn’t even notice me…or anything very much. She’s awfully sad and sometimes I hear
     her crying. That’s why I’m glad you came to see her.” She twisted around and looked into the rear carrying space where I’d
     set my bag and Mavis’s book. “She gave you her poetry collection. That means she was happy. When she’s sad she won’t even
     talk about the poems.”
    “She did seem sad at first. Do you know why?”
    She shrugged, looking down and fiddling with the seat belt.
    “Are you sad, too, Habiba?”
    “…Most of the time. Lonesome, too.”
    “Do you miss your father?”
    “Sort of, but I don’t really remember him.”
    “No? You must’ve been around four when he went away; that’s old