Read Online Dead Letter by Jonathan Valin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Valin
Ads: Link
Lovingwell’s
Jaguar and stepped out into the white glare of the morning sun.
Sarah Lovingwell answered the front door on the first
knock. She looked less haggard than she had the previous afternoon,
though her face was still pinched with fatigue.
"I thought I told you that I never wanted to see
you again," she growled.
"That was yesterday. I thought you might need me
today."
"Why? Nothing’s changed. You still remind me
of him."
"Plenty’s changed. Your father didn’t commit
suicide. He was murdered. And your boyfriend lied to the police about
being with you at the time of the Professor’s death."
"Murdered?" she said with what seemed like
genuine surprise. "Who says he was murdered? How do you know
that? The police haven’t told me that."
"I was just with the police," I told her.
"It kind of blows your theory about why he killed himself. Or
was that a fib, too? Like the alibi?"
"What do you want?" she said in an ugly
voice. "Money? Is that it?"
"I’m getting sick and tired of people treating
me like low-life because of my job," I said angrily. "I
came here to help you, because I promised your father I would. And
what I want is to find out what happened to that document and what
happened to him."
"I don’t care what happened to him. Whether he
committed suicide or not, he deserved to die."
I shook my head. "Are you sure we’re talking
about the same man? Amiable, eccentric Daryl Lovingwell?"
Sarah Lovingwell smiled for the first time since I’d
met her. It wasn’t a pleasant smile, but it was a damn sight better
than the dark looks I’d been getting up to that point.
"I feel like Cary Grant in North by Northwest.
Remember the scene when he says, 'Forgive me. But who are those
people living in your house?’ I think I’m owed an explanation?"
She shook her head.
"A cup of coffee?"
"All right," she said. "But that’s
all."
As Sarah and I walked through the living room and
down a narrow hall to the kitchen, I was taken again by the elegance
of Lovingwell’s home. If houses tell you anything about their
owners—and they invariably do—this one spoke clearly of a man who
loved luxury. It spoke of old money glittering in a hundred different
knickknacks —crystal animals, glazed porcelain statuary, the sorts
of things you see advertised in the back of architectural magazines
and wonder who on earth ever buys. Daryl Lovingwell had bought them.
The brocade loveseats with inlaid burl, the silver tea sets, the
bronze baskets and dull pewter ornaments. I spent a moment admiring a
Swiss clock I had seen advertised for years in The New Yorker, while
Sarah looked impatiently at the dial.
"He had fine taste, your father," I said to
her.
"He grew up with money," she said with
almost clinical dispassion. "He liked it the way other people
secretly despise things. To him, it was a deep, ugly obsession."
The kitchen was big and white and comfortable. We sat at a butcher
block table set in a small, glassed-in alcove that looked out on a
rolling lawn which swept up to a huge, leafless oak and then down to
a hedge of rosebushes. Sarah said nothing. Her hands played at the
coffee cup, at the spoon. Her prim, pretty face was restless and
self-absorbed.
"Do you want to tell me why O’Hara lied to the
police?" I said to her.
She shook her head slightly. "What makes you
think he was lying?"
"Because he was following me in your car at 1:00
P.M.
He and a black kid in a salt-and-pepper beanie. And I
think you can tell me why."
She looked uneasily out the window toward the oak.
"He planted that in 1949. The year he got his
appointment here."
"Why do you always talk about him in that tone
of voice—as if he were a character in a book?"
A spark of amusement lit Sarah’s blue eyes. "You’re
a smart fellow, aren’t you? I thought detectives were supposed to
be plodding, dim-witted types. Muscles with speech."
"That’s the second time you haven’t answered
my questions."
"And who are you to ask me questions?"
Jaguar and stepped out into the white glare of the morning sun.
Sarah Lovingwell answered the front door on the first
knock. She looked less haggard than she had the previous afternoon,
though her face was still pinched with fatigue.
"I thought I told you that I never wanted to see
you again," she growled.
"That was yesterday. I thought you might need me
today."
"Why? Nothing’s changed. You still remind me
of him."
"Plenty’s changed. Your father didn’t commit
suicide. He was murdered. And your boyfriend lied to the police about
being with you at the time of the Professor’s death."
"Murdered?" she said with what seemed like
genuine surprise. "Who says he was murdered? How do you know
that? The police haven’t told me that."
"I was just with the police," I told her.
"It kind of blows your theory about why he killed himself. Or
was that a fib, too? Like the alibi?"
"What do you want?" she said in an ugly
voice. "Money? Is that it?"
"I’m getting sick and tired of people treating
me like low-life because of my job," I said angrily. "I
came here to help you, because I promised your father I would. And
what I want is to find out what happened to that document and what
happened to him."
"I don’t care what happened to him. Whether he
committed suicide or not, he deserved to die."
I shook my head. "Are you sure we’re talking
about the same man? Amiable, eccentric Daryl Lovingwell?"
Sarah Lovingwell smiled for the first time since I’d
met her. It wasn’t a pleasant smile, but it was a damn sight better
than the dark looks I’d been getting up to that point.
"I feel like Cary Grant in North by Northwest.
Remember the scene when he says, 'Forgive me. But who are those
people living in your house?’ I think I’m owed an explanation?"
She shook her head.
"A cup of coffee?"
"All right," she said. "But that’s
all."
As Sarah and I walked through the living room and
down a narrow hall to the kitchen, I was taken again by the elegance
of Lovingwell’s home. If houses tell you anything about their
owners—and they invariably do—this one spoke clearly of a man who
loved luxury. It spoke of old money glittering in a hundred different
knickknacks —crystal animals, glazed porcelain statuary, the sorts
of things you see advertised in the back of architectural magazines
and wonder who on earth ever buys. Daryl Lovingwell had bought them.
The brocade loveseats with inlaid burl, the silver tea sets, the
bronze baskets and dull pewter ornaments. I spent a moment admiring a
Swiss clock I had seen advertised for years in The New Yorker, while
Sarah looked impatiently at the dial.
"He had fine taste, your father," I said to
her.
"He grew up with money," she said with
almost clinical dispassion. "He liked it the way other people
secretly despise things. To him, it was a deep, ugly obsession."
The kitchen was big and white and comfortable. We sat at a butcher
block table set in a small, glassed-in alcove that looked out on a
rolling lawn which swept up to a huge, leafless oak and then down to
a hedge of rosebushes. Sarah said nothing. Her hands played at the
coffee cup, at the spoon. Her prim, pretty face was restless and
self-absorbed.
"Do you want to tell me why O’Hara lied to the
police?" I said to her.
She shook her head slightly. "What makes you
think he was lying?"
"Because he was following me in your car at 1:00
P.M.
He and a black kid in a salt-and-pepper beanie. And I
think you can tell me why."
She looked uneasily out the window toward the oak.
"He planted that in 1949. The year he got his
appointment here."
"Why do you always talk about him in that tone
of voice—as if he were a character in a book?"
A spark of amusement lit Sarah’s blue eyes. "You’re
a smart fellow, aren’t you? I thought detectives were supposed to
be plodding, dim-witted types. Muscles with speech."
"That’s the second time you haven’t answered
my questions."
"And who are you to ask me questions?"
Similar Books
