Read Online Ashes To Ashes: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online
Authors: Don Pendleton
Ads: Link
him."
"Sex is heavy?"
"It is for me."
"Since when?"
"Since forever."
"Since your awareness of sex. Going back to
when?"
She was becoming impatient with me, fidgety.
"I guess I have always been aware of it. I cannot remember a time
when I was not aware of it."
I commented, "That's, uh, pretty heavy,
yeah. Where'd you go to school?"
"Right here. Poppa insisted on private
tutors. I have never attended a real school."
"Poppa is TJ? Or JQ?"
"JQ. TJ never seemed to know if I was dead
or alive."
"You never mention your mother," I pointed
out.
"I have very little reason to," she replied.
"I saw very little of my mother. I believe that she was gone, not
here, for most of my life. I believe—it seems that—I think she came
back right after Poppa died."
God, it was getting heavier and heavier.
I said, "Poppa died when you were thirteen.
Then your mother and father less than a year later. Terry and
Marcia took over your guardianship?"
"Yes."
"But you continued to have private tutors
instead of going to regular school?"
"That's right."
"Did you like that?"
"I guess I never thought about it."
"You never questioned it,
never rebelled, never thought how nice it would be to have people
your own."She shut me down right there, coldly, finally. "I said I
never thought about it. I have to start getting ready for dinner."
She rose from the couch, gave me a frosty look. "See you
later."
And that was it.
There was no doubt that the interview had
ended.
The only question in my mind was who had
ended it. I don't know who that lady was, the stiffly formal one
with the frosty look.
I just knew that it was not Karen
Highland.
Chapter Eight: From the
Stream
I did not have time to fully assimilate the
perplexing developments with Karen because another problem was
awaiting me in my room—in the person of Marcia Kalinsky.
She was wearing a mini version of the terry
cloth robe that was assuming proportions as uniform of the day in
this household—and when I say "mini" I mean hip-length and
obviously designed to enhance rather than conceal the feminine
charms of the wearer. I have already noted on these pages the fact
that Marcia was remarkably preserved and no slouch whatever in the
feminine charms department—but I must add here that the casually
belted minirobe, worn over nothing more than the bottom half of a
skimpy bikini bathing suit, added nothing but strain to an already
overstrained day.
I left the door wide open.
She closed it.
I kept on my feet and moving, trying to
maintain a safe distance between polarized bodies.
She kept moving, also, continually closing
that distance.
This was the mode of physical action during
the ensuing conversation.
She: "Where the hell have you been? I've
been waiting for damned near thirty minutes."
Me: "Sorry, I didn't know. I would have
rushed right back. Uh, did we have an appointment?"
She: "Don't get cute. This is no time for
cute. I want to know where you've been."
Me: "Not that it is any of
your business, but purely because I have nothing to conceal, I have
been with my client. Karen is my client. She is the sole
reason—"
She: "Everything that goes on in this house
is my business. Karen is my business. That girl is sick. Sick,
sick. She's just so much raw meat for bastards like you. I want you
out of here. And damned quick."
Me: "There seems to be a conflict here. Your
husband has ordered me to stay for dinner. And I have been retained
by the lady of the—"
She, furiously: "That bastard! Can't you see
what he's doing? He's setting you up, asshole! Setting you up!"
I got back to the door and opened it,
pointedly. "Let's continue this at dinner."
She hit the door with a straight arm to send
it banging shut again. "We'll continue it right here! Did Terry
offer you a contract?"
I was getting steamed. I
went to the bar, found and lit a cigarette, only then noticed the
half-empty fifth of Jim Beam and equally half-empty tumbler of
booze-rocks.
"Sex is heavy?"
"It is for me."
"Since when?"
"Since forever."
"Since your awareness of sex. Going back to
when?"
She was becoming impatient with me, fidgety.
"I guess I have always been aware of it. I cannot remember a time
when I was not aware of it."
I commented, "That's, uh, pretty heavy,
yeah. Where'd you go to school?"
"Right here. Poppa insisted on private
tutors. I have never attended a real school."
"Poppa is TJ? Or JQ?"
"JQ. TJ never seemed to know if I was dead
or alive."
"You never mention your mother," I pointed
out.
"I have very little reason to," she replied.
"I saw very little of my mother. I believe that she was gone, not
here, for most of my life. I believe—it seems that—I think she came
back right after Poppa died."
God, it was getting heavier and heavier.
I said, "Poppa died when you were thirteen.
Then your mother and father less than a year later. Terry and
Marcia took over your guardianship?"
"Yes."
"But you continued to have private tutors
instead of going to regular school?"
"That's right."
"Did you like that?"
"I guess I never thought about it."
"You never questioned it,
never rebelled, never thought how nice it would be to have people
your own."She shut me down right there, coldly, finally. "I said I
never thought about it. I have to start getting ready for dinner."
She rose from the couch, gave me a frosty look. "See you
later."
And that was it.
There was no doubt that the interview had
ended.
The only question in my mind was who had
ended it. I don't know who that lady was, the stiffly formal one
with the frosty look.
I just knew that it was not Karen
Highland.
Chapter Eight: From the
Stream
I did not have time to fully assimilate the
perplexing developments with Karen because another problem was
awaiting me in my room—in the person of Marcia Kalinsky.
She was wearing a mini version of the terry
cloth robe that was assuming proportions as uniform of the day in
this household—and when I say "mini" I mean hip-length and
obviously designed to enhance rather than conceal the feminine
charms of the wearer. I have already noted on these pages the fact
that Marcia was remarkably preserved and no slouch whatever in the
feminine charms department—but I must add here that the casually
belted minirobe, worn over nothing more than the bottom half of a
skimpy bikini bathing suit, added nothing but strain to an already
overstrained day.
I left the door wide open.
She closed it.
I kept on my feet and moving, trying to
maintain a safe distance between polarized bodies.
She kept moving, also, continually closing
that distance.
This was the mode of physical action during
the ensuing conversation.
She: "Where the hell have you been? I've
been waiting for damned near thirty minutes."
Me: "Sorry, I didn't know. I would have
rushed right back. Uh, did we have an appointment?"
She: "Don't get cute. This is no time for
cute. I want to know where you've been."
Me: "Not that it is any of
your business, but purely because I have nothing to conceal, I have
been with my client. Karen is my client. She is the sole
reason—"
She: "Everything that goes on in this house
is my business. Karen is my business. That girl is sick. Sick,
sick. She's just so much raw meat for bastards like you. I want you
out of here. And damned quick."
Me: "There seems to be a conflict here. Your
husband has ordered me to stay for dinner. And I have been retained
by the lady of the—"
She, furiously: "That bastard! Can't you see
what he's doing? He's setting you up, asshole! Setting you up!"
I got back to the door and opened it,
pointedly. "Let's continue this at dinner."
She hit the door with a straight arm to send
it banging shut again. "We'll continue it right here! Did Terry
offer you a contract?"
I was getting steamed. I
went to the bar, found and lit a cigarette, only then noticed the
half-empty fifth of Jim Beam and equally half-empty tumbler of
booze-rocks.
Similar Books
