Read Online Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 by Scandal in Fair Haven - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Scandal in Fair Haven
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Detective and Mystery Stories, Women Journalists, Tennessee, Women Journalists - Tennessee, Henrie O (Fictitious Character)
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elegance.
In saucy and deliberate contrast, one wall was covered with vivid but painfully amateurish paintings of fruits and vegetables and something that looked vaguely like a spotted cow. The initials
PK
were blazoned in electric pink in the lower right-hand corner of each painting.
I could almost hear a ripple of delighted laughter.
And I did hear, sharp and startling, the front doorbell. I hesitated for only an instant—the interloper with chutzpah to the max—then walked swiftly to the main hall. I opened the door.
“Cr—” A tall, anorexic-thin, metallic blonde stared at me in surprise. “Oh. Hello. I’m Cheryl Kraft from next door.” She pointed vaguely to her right. “I saw the car.Knew it wasn’t Jewel.” She blinked. “My maid. Patty Kay’s maid. Thought it was Craig.” A shimmering ivory silk blouse was loosely tucked in burgundy linen trousers that sagged against her bony hips.
“Craig isn’t home yet.” I held open the screen. “Won’t you come in? I’m Craig’s aunt, Henrietta Collins.”
That put her at ease. Aunts she could do. She stepped inside. “Good of you to come,” Cheryl murmured. She clasped my hands in hers, but her eyes slipped swiftly past me toward the closed kitchen door. “I won’t keep you. Actually, I’m doing a Paul Revere. Calling everyone to arms. I’m going house to house, inviting everyone in the neighborhood to come to my house. Tonight. At eight. Everyone but the poor Hollises, of course. We’ve got to find out what’s happening, how we can help dear Craig. Of course, we all know the police position is
absurd
. We must take action. Murder! I can’t believe it. Why, none of us even have alarm systems. We’ve never needed them. Not in Fair Haven. Half the time I don’t even lock my doors! But two alarm companies called me this morning. Dreadful. Just like vultures. But my daughter Phoebe called from New York, insisting I order an alarm today.” She gave my hands a swift, encouraging squeeze. “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she gushed, then whirled and pushed through the screen, pausing just long enough on the top step to call out, “I’ll look for you at eight—and please bring Craig. If he can come.”
I watched her walk down the drive and cross the street. She waved at the boy on the mower and walked briskly toward the front steps of the colonial.
She hadn’t given me time to answer. But I’d be there.
I closed the door. Toward the back of the house, a door opened to the outside. A telephone and answering machine sat atop another butler’s table near a door to the kitchen. Awoman’s cotton madras patchwork purse, jaunty for spring, sat by the telephone.
The red message light blinked seven times in rapid succession, paused, blinked again.
I reached for the purse first. I lifted out a cream leather billfold. Inside, I found Patty Kay’s driver’s license, an astonishing array of credit cards, and sixty-three dollars in cash. A lemon lace handkerchief, a crystal vial of Mondi, Visine eyedrops, a sack of sugarless candies, loose coins, a used bridge tally, a column raggedly torn from a newspaper. I looked at the piece from the newspaper carefully, but it was merely a review of a new biography of Edith Wharton. A portion of an ad for swimsuits was on the other side. Lipstick, compact, makeup brush. An emery board. An address book. I flipped through it. So many names. Too many names. But the last page, entitled Useful Numbers, was useful indeed.
I opened my own purse and jotted down these names and numbers:
LAVERNE —9 a.m. Wednesdays—555-HAIR
JEWEL —Tuesdays, Fridays—555-7769
GINA —555-3781 Tennis 9 a.m. Thursday
BROOKE —555-4239 Tennis 9 a.m. Thursday
EDITH —555-1463 Tennis 9 a.m. Thursday
SCHOOL —555-5656
I returned the address book, unzipped a side pocket. A photo packet. Photos of Craig, of Craig and Patty Kay, of the two of them and a skinny teenage girl with sunlight glinting on her silver braces. Patty
In saucy and deliberate contrast, one wall was covered with vivid but painfully amateurish paintings of fruits and vegetables and something that looked vaguely like a spotted cow. The initials
PK
were blazoned in electric pink in the lower right-hand corner of each painting.
I could almost hear a ripple of delighted laughter.
And I did hear, sharp and startling, the front doorbell. I hesitated for only an instant—the interloper with chutzpah to the max—then walked swiftly to the main hall. I opened the door.
“Cr—” A tall, anorexic-thin, metallic blonde stared at me in surprise. “Oh. Hello. I’m Cheryl Kraft from next door.” She pointed vaguely to her right. “I saw the car.Knew it wasn’t Jewel.” She blinked. “My maid. Patty Kay’s maid. Thought it was Craig.” A shimmering ivory silk blouse was loosely tucked in burgundy linen trousers that sagged against her bony hips.
“Craig isn’t home yet.” I held open the screen. “Won’t you come in? I’m Craig’s aunt, Henrietta Collins.”
That put her at ease. Aunts she could do. She stepped inside. “Good of you to come,” Cheryl murmured. She clasped my hands in hers, but her eyes slipped swiftly past me toward the closed kitchen door. “I won’t keep you. Actually, I’m doing a Paul Revere. Calling everyone to arms. I’m going house to house, inviting everyone in the neighborhood to come to my house. Tonight. At eight. Everyone but the poor Hollises, of course. We’ve got to find out what’s happening, how we can help dear Craig. Of course, we all know the police position is
absurd
. We must take action. Murder! I can’t believe it. Why, none of us even have alarm systems. We’ve never needed them. Not in Fair Haven. Half the time I don’t even lock my doors! But two alarm companies called me this morning. Dreadful. Just like vultures. But my daughter Phoebe called from New York, insisting I order an alarm today.” She gave my hands a swift, encouraging squeeze. “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she gushed, then whirled and pushed through the screen, pausing just long enough on the top step to call out, “I’ll look for you at eight—and please bring Craig. If he can come.”
I watched her walk down the drive and cross the street. She waved at the boy on the mower and walked briskly toward the front steps of the colonial.
She hadn’t given me time to answer. But I’d be there.
I closed the door. Toward the back of the house, a door opened to the outside. A telephone and answering machine sat atop another butler’s table near a door to the kitchen. Awoman’s cotton madras patchwork purse, jaunty for spring, sat by the telephone.
The red message light blinked seven times in rapid succession, paused, blinked again.
I reached for the purse first. I lifted out a cream leather billfold. Inside, I found Patty Kay’s driver’s license, an astonishing array of credit cards, and sixty-three dollars in cash. A lemon lace handkerchief, a crystal vial of Mondi, Visine eyedrops, a sack of sugarless candies, loose coins, a used bridge tally, a column raggedly torn from a newspaper. I looked at the piece from the newspaper carefully, but it was merely a review of a new biography of Edith Wharton. A portion of an ad for swimsuits was on the other side. Lipstick, compact, makeup brush. An emery board. An address book. I flipped through it. So many names. Too many names. But the last page, entitled Useful Numbers, was useful indeed.
I opened my own purse and jotted down these names and numbers:
LAVERNE —9 a.m. Wednesdays—555-HAIR
JEWEL —Tuesdays, Fridays—555-7769
GINA —555-3781 Tennis 9 a.m. Thursday
BROOKE —555-4239 Tennis 9 a.m. Thursday
EDITH —555-1463 Tennis 9 a.m. Thursday
SCHOOL —555-5656
I returned the address book, unzipped a side pocket. A photo packet. Photos of Craig, of Craig and Patty Kay, of the two of them and a skinny teenage girl with sunlight glinting on her silver braces. Patty
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