Read Online Blowing Smoke by Barbara Block - Free Book Online Page B

Metropolitan Museum of Art, stood over in one corner.
    As I slowed down to contemplate a fifteenth-century Buddha sitting, palms upraised, staring out at a blank wall, consoling no one, I wondered why Hillary had chosen to decorate her house the way she had. Most people in her situation would have picked another motif instead of coming up with a cheap copy of her mother’s. I know I had. Maybe Hillary was making an ironic commentary on the nature of wealth and possessions, except she didn’t strike me as either distanced or sophisticated enough to do that. I was still wondering about that when I walked into the sunroom.
    â€œCome in, come in,” Mrs. Taylor said, indicating she wanted me to come closer with a crisp wave of her right hand. The gesture was as precise as her penmanship.
    She was seated on a cushioned wicker chaise longue, stroking the lilac-point Siamese cat resting on her lap, the cat, I presumed, Pat Humphrey was talking to on a regular basis. A cluster of weeping ficus trees that almost reached the ceiling stood behind her. To her right was a priestly-looking man in a lightweight navy suit, while to her left was the man who’d delivered her note to me this morning.
    â€œDid you have a nice drive over?” she inquired.
    I nodded as I advanced across the floor. The place smelled of dead flowers and cloves.
    â€œGood.”
    The room was all windows and oak. Off to one side was a small greenhouse that could be closed off from the main room by a sliding-glass door. Baskets of large staghorn and maidenhair ferns hung from the ceiling, while pots of improbably colored orchids sat on the center table.
    â€œOrchids are a hobby of mine,” she explained, following my glance. “I like them because they’re a challenge. They’re difficult to propagate and difficult to raise. Unlike some other flowers, such as my namesake—roses. Which, despite what some people say, are essentially boring.”
    If I were going to guess, I’d say Rose Taylor was about seventy. It was easy to see how pretty she must have been forty years ago. She still had the cheekbones, the large eyes, and a wide, generous mouth. Her gray hair was pulled back in a chignon. Her makeup was light. She hadn’t made the mistake of trying to disguise the wrinkles on her face. Her dress was simple, a pair of black linen pants and a thin white linen shirt with decorative embroidery around the collar. Her only jewelry was a pair of large emerald earrings.
    â€œThis,” she said, pointing to her cat, “is Sheba, and this,” she said pointing to the tall, painfully thin man in the blue suit, “is my old friend and lawyer, Mr. Moss Ryan. And this person, whom you met in the store this morning, is my husband, Geoffrey Lang.”
    I don’t know if my jaw dropped or not. But her expression told me how much she enjoyed the look of amazement that had to be appearing on my face.
    We were talking about what here? An age difference of twenty-five or thirty years?
    For some reason I found myself thinking of the Cheshire cat. Maybe it was Rose Taylor’s smile.
    Her smile showed off her teeth. They were very small and very white, and they looked as if they could still take a nasty bite out of someone.
    â€œYou see,” she purred. “People are wrong when they say money can’t buy happiness.”

Chapter Six
    I wondered how long ago the happy couple had gotten married and what Rose Taylor’s children thought about the nuptials and whether or not they’d been invited to the wedding, let alone gone, while I watched the flesh around Geoffrey’s nostrils turn dead white. His entire face reddened. He looked as if he’d been slapped.
    â€œIs there anything wrong, dear?” Rose Taylor asked, touching her husband’s sleeve.
    He flinched and drew away. Rose Taylor’s face crumpled. Her lower lip began trembling.
    â€œOh, my.” She lifted her hand away from the