Read Online He Done Her Wrong: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Eight) (Toby Peters Mysteries) by Stuart M. Kaminsky - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
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father?”
“I want to know where he is.”
“Who are you?” Her eyes had narrowed, and she shook her hair to rid it of a few remaining drops of water or to let it hang loose. It was a nice gesture.
“I’m a private detective. Name’s Toby Peters. I’ve been hired by Dr. Winning of the Winning Institute to find your father. He broke out of the institute four days ago.”
“And Dr. Winning thinks he might come here?” Her hands tightened and turned white as they clutched her arms. I couldn’t tell if there was an undercurrent of fear or disbelief in her voice.
“No,” I said, looking at the house for signs of life before turning back to her. “It’s a place to start. Dr. Winning doesn’t want him hurt and doesn’t want him to hurt anybody.”
“My father never hurt anybody,” she fired back.
“Maybe,” I said. “I think we met the other night, and he expressed something more than verbal hostility.”
“I never wanted him in that place,” she said. “That was my mother and her husband’s idea.”
“Maybe I could talk to your mother and …” I said, taking a step toward the house.
She unfolded her hands and stepped in front of me.
“My mother isn’t here. She went to San Diego to visit her sister. My stepfather is in the house sleeping. He hasn’t been feeling well and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
We stared at each for two or three minutes, waiting for a break. She didn’t give me one, so I tried, “I’ve got a warm carton of milk and some Wheaties in my car. Maybe we can share a bowl and watch the sun go down while we wait for stepdaddy to wake up.”
She couldn’t stop the corners of her mouth from curling up from her full lips in a near smile, so I went on.
“I could sew on my button while we laugh at my clothes and you show me the family album. I’d like to see a picture of your father.”
She thawed a little and let her palms up.
“There are no decent photographs of my father. There used to be when he was acting, but when he grew … when he began to have problems, he tore them all up and refused to have another one taken. We’ve got one of him dressed as King Lear, but you can’t really recognize him in it.”
“He played Lear?” I said, taking another step toward the house.
“No.” Her head bent and shook sadly. “He dressed as Lear but never played him. Knew the part. I remember when I was a little girl he did scenes for me in our kitchen back in Ventura. He was really good.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said. “Can I put my milk in your refrigerator?”
Her head came up cocked to one side quizzically.
“O.K., but let’s keep it quiet. Harold can be a bit difficult, especially when he’s disturbed during his nap or when my father’s name comes up.”
She led the way in through the back door. The kitchen was large, pine, and modern with shining steel and a double sink. The refrigerator in the corner made self-satisfied gurgling sounds, and we sat at a kitchen table made of redwood. My milk could wait. I’d drink it on the way back to L.A. Through the side window on the opposite side of the house I could see a big blue car, probably a Packard.
Delores Ressner was tight and edgy as she turned the coffeepot on and sat. She scratched at a bothersome cuticle and bit her lower lip before looking up at me.
“What do you do?” I said. “Besides swimming.”
She shrugged. “Some acting. Nothing much. A few small parts at Twentieth Century-Fox. I was in Blood and Sand . One of the ladies-in-waiting. Things like that. A little modeling, mostly for mail-order catalogs. Now”—she looked out the window—“Now I’m resting before I go back into the jungle.”
“Have you heard from your father in the last four days?”
She looked down at a knot in the wooden table. Behind us the coffeepot bubbled.
Somewhere deeper in the house the floor creaked. It wasn’t the creak of weather and sundown, but the creak of a human moving.
“He needs help,”
“I want to know where he is.”
“Who are you?” Her eyes had narrowed, and she shook her hair to rid it of a few remaining drops of water or to let it hang loose. It was a nice gesture.
“I’m a private detective. Name’s Toby Peters. I’ve been hired by Dr. Winning of the Winning Institute to find your father. He broke out of the institute four days ago.”
“And Dr. Winning thinks he might come here?” Her hands tightened and turned white as they clutched her arms. I couldn’t tell if there was an undercurrent of fear or disbelief in her voice.
“No,” I said, looking at the house for signs of life before turning back to her. “It’s a place to start. Dr. Winning doesn’t want him hurt and doesn’t want him to hurt anybody.”
“My father never hurt anybody,” she fired back.
“Maybe,” I said. “I think we met the other night, and he expressed something more than verbal hostility.”
“I never wanted him in that place,” she said. “That was my mother and her husband’s idea.”
“Maybe I could talk to your mother and …” I said, taking a step toward the house.
She unfolded her hands and stepped in front of me.
“My mother isn’t here. She went to San Diego to visit her sister. My stepfather is in the house sleeping. He hasn’t been feeling well and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
We stared at each for two or three minutes, waiting for a break. She didn’t give me one, so I tried, “I’ve got a warm carton of milk and some Wheaties in my car. Maybe we can share a bowl and watch the sun go down while we wait for stepdaddy to wake up.”
She couldn’t stop the corners of her mouth from curling up from her full lips in a near smile, so I went on.
“I could sew on my button while we laugh at my clothes and you show me the family album. I’d like to see a picture of your father.”
She thawed a little and let her palms up.
“There are no decent photographs of my father. There used to be when he was acting, but when he grew … when he began to have problems, he tore them all up and refused to have another one taken. We’ve got one of him dressed as King Lear, but you can’t really recognize him in it.”
“He played Lear?” I said, taking another step toward the house.
“No.” Her head bent and shook sadly. “He dressed as Lear but never played him. Knew the part. I remember when I was a little girl he did scenes for me in our kitchen back in Ventura. He was really good.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said. “Can I put my milk in your refrigerator?”
Her head came up cocked to one side quizzically.
“O.K., but let’s keep it quiet. Harold can be a bit difficult, especially when he’s disturbed during his nap or when my father’s name comes up.”
She led the way in through the back door. The kitchen was large, pine, and modern with shining steel and a double sink. The refrigerator in the corner made self-satisfied gurgling sounds, and we sat at a kitchen table made of redwood. My milk could wait. I’d drink it on the way back to L.A. Through the side window on the opposite side of the house I could see a big blue car, probably a Packard.
Delores Ressner was tight and edgy as she turned the coffeepot on and sat. She scratched at a bothersome cuticle and bit her lower lip before looking up at me.
“What do you do?” I said. “Besides swimming.”
She shrugged. “Some acting. Nothing much. A few small parts at Twentieth Century-Fox. I was in Blood and Sand . One of the ladies-in-waiting. Things like that. A little modeling, mostly for mail-order catalogs. Now”—she looked out the window—“Now I’m resting before I go back into the jungle.”
“Have you heard from your father in the last four days?”
She looked down at a knot in the wooden table. Behind us the coffeepot bubbled.
Somewhere deeper in the house the floor creaked. It wasn’t the creak of weather and sundown, but the creak of a human moving.
“He needs help,”
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