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goes up the beach, takes off his shoes, and walks around. One time he did that and came home with only one sock, the old coot.”
Interesting, thought Violet.
Very
interesting.
Sandra sighed. “Sometimes I think he looks for any excuse to get out of the house.”
There was a note of sadness in her voice, and Violet actually felt sorry for her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s too—”
“Never mind,” Sandra said, recovering her bristly composure. “I…I was just kidding.”
Oh, no, you weren’t, Violet thought, sensing, for the first time, that there was trouble in the marriage. And as hard as it was to imagine Malcolm with a girlfriend, the pieces were starting to create a picture that resembled what Delaney had been saying about her grandfather being on the make.
Of course, it was entirely possible someone else had a special-order RAV4 in salsa red. Not likely, but possible. Violet looked at her watch. There was still more than enough time to drive to the neighbor’s house and peek inside the car to see if there were any clues to the owner’s identity.
So she turned the ignition key and drove the short distance to where she had seen the vehicle. She parked and walked right up to the tinted windows so she could peer inside. And sure enough, there was a paper slipper on the floor—the kind they gave you at nail salons.
That night, after Delaney had gone, Violet sat in front of her laptop, trying to compose her review. She was having trouble concentrating, as her mind kept going back to seeing Malcolm’s car in the driveway. The evidence pointed so strongly to an affair, and yet…it was Malcolm. Goofy, pathetic Malcolm. Surely there was another explanation.
Violet decided to kick it around with her new friend, and a few minutes later they were face-to-face in the wingback chairs. Violet had a cup of tea, and Mrs. Parker was making do with scotch from the not-yet-restocked bar.
“I disagree,” said Mrs. Parker, as she sipped her drink. “I add two plus two, and I get Grandpa, who can’t keep his pants on.”
“You might not feel that way if you met Malcolm,” Violet said. “He’s so…guileless.”
“He has a dick, hasn’t he?”
A dick? Violet smiled, amused by Mrs. Parker’s euphemism. The modern-sounding term must have been around for generations.
“I try not to think about that,” she said.
“Trust me, the man is cheating.”
Violet shuddered at the thought. “You know what? It doesn’t even matter. It’s none of my business.”
“It may well be your business,” Mrs. Parker said. “Don’t you think it would help your custody case if it turned out the grandparents were of questionable moral character?”
Violet considered that. Certainly in Dorothy Parker’s day an extramarital affair would be scandalous enough to make all the difference. Today, though, it would constitute only a single round of ammunition in a lawyer’s arsenal.
“Maybe a little,” Violet said.
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“What am I supposed to do?” Violet asked. “Follow Malcolm around? Stake out the mysterious house?”
“For starters.”
“Forget it.”
“You could hire a private investigator,” Mrs. Parker offered.
“This is my life, not a movie…or a Dashiell Hammett novel.”
She thought her guest would appreciate the reference to one of her contemporaries, but Mrs. Parker practically growled. Then Violet remembered reading that they had been adversaries. Dashiell Hammett—famous for creating iconic detectives, such as Sam Spade—was attached to playwright Lillian Hellman, one of Dorothy Parker’sclosest friends, but he made himself scarce whenever she visited. They just never got along.
“I’m sorry,” Violet said. “I forgot that you two—”
“Never mind,” Mrs. Parker said, waving away the comment. She took a long sip from her drink. “I’d rather talk about this other horse’s ass,
Interesting, thought Violet.
Very
interesting.
Sandra sighed. “Sometimes I think he looks for any excuse to get out of the house.”
There was a note of sadness in her voice, and Violet actually felt sorry for her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s too—”
“Never mind,” Sandra said, recovering her bristly composure. “I…I was just kidding.”
Oh, no, you weren’t, Violet thought, sensing, for the first time, that there was trouble in the marriage. And as hard as it was to imagine Malcolm with a girlfriend, the pieces were starting to create a picture that resembled what Delaney had been saying about her grandfather being on the make.
Of course, it was entirely possible someone else had a special-order RAV4 in salsa red. Not likely, but possible. Violet looked at her watch. There was still more than enough time to drive to the neighbor’s house and peek inside the car to see if there were any clues to the owner’s identity.
So she turned the ignition key and drove the short distance to where she had seen the vehicle. She parked and walked right up to the tinted windows so she could peer inside. And sure enough, there was a paper slipper on the floor—the kind they gave you at nail salons.
That night, after Delaney had gone, Violet sat in front of her laptop, trying to compose her review. She was having trouble concentrating, as her mind kept going back to seeing Malcolm’s car in the driveway. The evidence pointed so strongly to an affair, and yet…it was Malcolm. Goofy, pathetic Malcolm. Surely there was another explanation.
Violet decided to kick it around with her new friend, and a few minutes later they were face-to-face in the wingback chairs. Violet had a cup of tea, and Mrs. Parker was making do with scotch from the not-yet-restocked bar.
“I disagree,” said Mrs. Parker, as she sipped her drink. “I add two plus two, and I get Grandpa, who can’t keep his pants on.”
“You might not feel that way if you met Malcolm,” Violet said. “He’s so…guileless.”
“He has a dick, hasn’t he?”
A dick? Violet smiled, amused by Mrs. Parker’s euphemism. The modern-sounding term must have been around for generations.
“I try not to think about that,” she said.
“Trust me, the man is cheating.”
Violet shuddered at the thought. “You know what? It doesn’t even matter. It’s none of my business.”
“It may well be your business,” Mrs. Parker said. “Don’t you think it would help your custody case if it turned out the grandparents were of questionable moral character?”
Violet considered that. Certainly in Dorothy Parker’s day an extramarital affair would be scandalous enough to make all the difference. Today, though, it would constitute only a single round of ammunition in a lawyer’s arsenal.
“Maybe a little,” Violet said.
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“What am I supposed to do?” Violet asked. “Follow Malcolm around? Stake out the mysterious house?”
“For starters.”
“Forget it.”
“You could hire a private investigator,” Mrs. Parker offered.
“This is my life, not a movie…or a Dashiell Hammett novel.”
She thought her guest would appreciate the reference to one of her contemporaries, but Mrs. Parker practically growled. Then Violet remembered reading that they had been adversaries. Dashiell Hammett—famous for creating iconic detectives, such as Sam Spade—was attached to playwright Lillian Hellman, one of Dorothy Parker’sclosest friends, but he made himself scarce whenever she visited. They just never got along.
“I’m sorry,” Violet said. “I forgot that you two—”
“Never mind,” Mrs. Parker said, waving away the comment. She took a long sip from her drink. “I’d rather talk about this other horse’s ass,
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