Read Online Ellipsis by Stephen Greenleaf - Free Book Online Page A

o’clock?”
    â€œToday?”
    â€œYeah.”
    She thought it over. “Same as usual, I guess—inching toward the liquor cabinet and trying to keep Conrad off me till nightfall.”
    I laughed because it was the truth and because I could picture it as vividly as if I were in the room.
    Ruthie Spring was an old friend. Her first husband, Harry, had been my mentor in the investigations trade until he was murdered in a valley town named Oxtail more than twenty years ago. Her second husband, Conrad, is rich beyond calculus and spends his money on whatever Ruthie wants him to, which is usually one or another of Ruthie’s favorite causes. She’s a former army nurse and sheriff’s deputy and is currently a private investigator carrying on for her fallen husband. She works when she wants to and doesn’t when she doesn’t, a state of nirvana I aspire to myself, although it’s beginning to look as if I’ll never get there unless I win the lottery, which is problematic since I don’t play.
    â€œWhat’s happening at four o’clock?” Ruthie asked as I was scanning our recent history.
    â€œEver hear of Chandelier Wells?”
    â€œThe writer?”
    â€œThe very same.”
    â€œSure. She’s huge.”
    â€œRead any of her books?”
    â€œI have to admit that when Conrad goes off on one of his quail shoots, she gets my juices flowing a night or two. Gets me wet as a sweat sock sometimes.”
    I was glad Ruthie couldn’t see my blush.
    â€œThe lady writes a nice slice of erotica,” she went on. “Not too gamy; not too tame. A sort of ‘I think I’ll try that myself next time’ kind of thing. Why does it matter?”
    â€œShe’s having a party celebrating her new book at Jimbo’s at four. Thought you might want to go.”
    â€œYou going to be there?”
    â€œYep.”
    She chuckled with a ribald nudge. “Big fan of bodice rippers, are you, Marsh?”
    â€œI’ll be working, actually,” I said quickly. Not that there’s anything wrong with bodice rippers. “And I could use some help.”
    â€œDoing what?”
    â€œKeeping an eye out for anyone who might have something in mind other than literature.”
    â€œSomething illegal, you mean.”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œEven violent.”
    â€œYep.”
    She paused. “Count me in, Sugar Bear. Might be a hoot, hobnobbing with the hoi polloi. What do I have to do?”
    â€œJust keep your eyes open.”
    â€œWe going together or separately?”
    â€œI’ve got to be there early, so come on your own about four. And don’t let on that we know each other, unless you need help shutting something down.”
    â€œDo I pack my piece?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œNo problem. I’ll be the one in the lizard-skin boots,” she added unnecessarily, then told me to be good and if I couldn’t be good, to send her a copy of the videotape.
    I got to Jimbo’s a little after three. True to Lark McLaren’s prediction, the devoted had already begun to assemble, most of them women, many of them lugging bulging canvas book bags and sporting sweatshirts emblazoned with one of Chandelier’s book jackets, all of them surprisingly cheerful given the chill in the afternoon air and the length of the idolatrous line. I tried to remember if I’d ever gotten a book signed by its author and could only come up with the night I went to a reading by Mailer but didn’t have the nerve to ask for an autograph even though I bought his book.
    When I got inside the building, Lark was standing in the lobby with another woman at her side. “Long time, no see,” I said. “And thanks for lunch, by the way.”
    â€œI wish I’d had what you had,” she said.
    â€œHungry already?”
    â€œFamished.” She lowered her voice. “I took a quick look around and didn’t see