Read Online Death on a Silver Platter by Ellen Hart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ellen Hart
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Zander supervised the gardeners and the housekeeper. He saw to it that Danny and Elaine were ferried to school and back and taken to other activities. He even did some of the cooking. Over time, he’d made himself indispensable, becoming Millie Veelund’s personal factotum.
Zander was in his early sixties now. A small, trim man with Brooks Brothers tastes. Salt-and-pepper hair always clipped short. Clean shaven. Rigid posture. Equally rigid personality. His aura of precision and impeccable personal hygiene made Danny, and everyone else who got within ten feet of his onrushing cologne, feel like a slob.
“That’s okay, Zander. She didn’t know about the trip.”
“Will you be staying long?”
“A few days.”
“I’ll see to it that your room is made up. Your luggage?”
“It’s out in the car.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve only got one bag. Say, why are there so many cars outside?”
Zander stiffened his already ramrod-straight back. “Your niece . . . had an accident last night. She’ll be staying here with us for a few days.”
“An accident?”
“I think you should talk to your sister.”
“Is Elaine here?”
“She’s out on the patio with Tracy and Mick. And Tracy’s therapist.”
“Her therapist ?”
Zander looked around, then gave a knowing nod.
His manner was so odd that Danny wasn’t sure what to think. Out of loyalty to his employer, Zander tended to be very closed-mouthed about family matters—that is, unless he’d been drinking, which was his only obvious flaw. Getting Zander smashed used to be a favorite family game with Danny, Elaine, and Alex. He was a hoot after a few too many Manhattans. He liked to disco dance, tell off-color jokes, and occasionally a bit of gossip would leak out. Alex figured he was gay and said he thought that was revolting, but every now and then Zander would talk about one of his sexual exploits in fairly vivid detail. It was always a woman. He was either lying, or they’d misjudged him.
“Where’s my mother?” asked Danny.
“She’s in her study.”
Zander seemed to be in such a rush to get somewhere, that Danny let him go. Instead of heading out to the patio to talk to his sister, he decided to announce his visit to his mother. She was, after all, his main reason for coming.
Danny found her standing at the window, looking out at an immense oak tree, one his father had planted on the east side of the house. She was frowning, deep in thought. Last summer, her hair had been white. Now it was blue. Tomorrow it would be red, or brown, or gray. His mother was always changing the way she looked, as if she was never satisfied with her appearance. She’d been an attractive, even exotic-looking young woman who had aged into a heavyset, thick-lipped, sour old woman. Danny still remembered the sweet times he’d spent with her as a child. She’d been diabetic and asthmatic for many years, and it had changed her. Or maybe something else had, but the sweetness he knew had faded long ago. Her children referred to her now as The Judging Machine.
Simply put, Millie Veelund was a bigot. She preceded most of her pronouncements with “I’m not prejudiced, but—” African Americans were all lazy and deserved to live in the projects. Jews might try to fool you, but they were only out for money—a stab at Ruth, Danny’s wife, who was Jewish. American society was going to hell because of drugs and homosexuals, oh, and intellectuals. One must never forget the evil influence of intellectual-ism—a stab at Danny and his wife. Public education was a disaster and should be abolished—another stab at Ruth. The American Civil Liberties Union was a pack of communists. All left-handed people were suspect. Right was right, and left was wrong. His mother always laughed at that one. The spirit of Joe McCarthy was alive and well and living in Minnesota. Margaret Thatcher was her political hero, as was Ronald Reagan, except that he was
Zander was in his early sixties now. A small, trim man with Brooks Brothers tastes. Salt-and-pepper hair always clipped short. Clean shaven. Rigid posture. Equally rigid personality. His aura of precision and impeccable personal hygiene made Danny, and everyone else who got within ten feet of his onrushing cologne, feel like a slob.
“That’s okay, Zander. She didn’t know about the trip.”
“Will you be staying long?”
“A few days.”
“I’ll see to it that your room is made up. Your luggage?”
“It’s out in the car.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve only got one bag. Say, why are there so many cars outside?”
Zander stiffened his already ramrod-straight back. “Your niece . . . had an accident last night. She’ll be staying here with us for a few days.”
“An accident?”
“I think you should talk to your sister.”
“Is Elaine here?”
“She’s out on the patio with Tracy and Mick. And Tracy’s therapist.”
“Her therapist ?”
Zander looked around, then gave a knowing nod.
His manner was so odd that Danny wasn’t sure what to think. Out of loyalty to his employer, Zander tended to be very closed-mouthed about family matters—that is, unless he’d been drinking, which was his only obvious flaw. Getting Zander smashed used to be a favorite family game with Danny, Elaine, and Alex. He was a hoot after a few too many Manhattans. He liked to disco dance, tell off-color jokes, and occasionally a bit of gossip would leak out. Alex figured he was gay and said he thought that was revolting, but every now and then Zander would talk about one of his sexual exploits in fairly vivid detail. It was always a woman. He was either lying, or they’d misjudged him.
“Where’s my mother?” asked Danny.
“She’s in her study.”
Zander seemed to be in such a rush to get somewhere, that Danny let him go. Instead of heading out to the patio to talk to his sister, he decided to announce his visit to his mother. She was, after all, his main reason for coming.
Danny found her standing at the window, looking out at an immense oak tree, one his father had planted on the east side of the house. She was frowning, deep in thought. Last summer, her hair had been white. Now it was blue. Tomorrow it would be red, or brown, or gray. His mother was always changing the way she looked, as if she was never satisfied with her appearance. She’d been an attractive, even exotic-looking young woman who had aged into a heavyset, thick-lipped, sour old woman. Danny still remembered the sweet times he’d spent with her as a child. She’d been diabetic and asthmatic for many years, and it had changed her. Or maybe something else had, but the sweetness he knew had faded long ago. Her children referred to her now as The Judging Machine.
Simply put, Millie Veelund was a bigot. She preceded most of her pronouncements with “I’m not prejudiced, but—” African Americans were all lazy and deserved to live in the projects. Jews might try to fool you, but they were only out for money—a stab at Ruth, Danny’s wife, who was Jewish. American society was going to hell because of drugs and homosexuals, oh, and intellectuals. One must never forget the evil influence of intellectual-ism—a stab at Danny and his wife. Public education was a disaster and should be abolished—another stab at Ruth. The American Civil Liberties Union was a pack of communists. All left-handed people were suspect. Right was right, and left was wrong. His mother always laughed at that one. The spirit of Joe McCarthy was alive and well and living in Minnesota. Margaret Thatcher was her political hero, as was Ronald Reagan, except that he was
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