Read Online How Like an Angel by Margaret Millar - Free Book Online Page B

politely, “I don’t mind.” Then, to the woman in the turban, “Please sit down.”
    â€œThank you very much.”
    She sat down opposite him as if she expected to find a bomb under the seat.
    â€œThis is very kind of you, sir.”
    â€œNot at all.”
    â€œIt is, though.” She added, with an air of disdain, “In this town a lady never knows what to expect.”
    â€œYou don’t like Chicote?”
    â€œDoes anyone? I mean, it’s terribly uncouth. That’s why I’m leaving.”
    She herself looked a bit too couth, Quinn decided. Some lipstick and a less severe hat that showed a little of her hair would have improved her. Even without them she was pretty, with the kind of earnest anemic prettiness Quinn associated with church choirs and amateur string quartets.
    Over fish and chips and cole slaw, she told Quinn her name, Wilhelmina de Vries, her occupation, typist, her ambi­tion, to be a private secretary to an important executive. Quinn told her his name, his occupation, security officer, and his ambition, to retire.
    â€œA security officer,” she repeated. “You mean a police­man?”
    â€œMore or less.”
    â€œIsn’t that simply fascinating? My goodness, are you here working on a case?”
    â€œLet’s just say I’m having a little holiday.”
    â€œNo one comes to Chicote for a holiday. It’s the kind of place people are always trying to get out of, like me.”
    â€œI’m interested in California history,” Quinn said. “Where towns like this got their names, for instance.”
    She looked disappointed. “Oh, that’s easy. Some man came out here from Kentucky for his health in the late 1890’s. He was going to grow tobacco, fields and fields of the world’s finest tobacco for the world’s finest cigars. That’s what Chi­cote means, cigar. Only the tobacco didn’t grow, and the ranchers switched to cotton, which did. Then oil was dis­covered and that was the end of Chicote as an agricultural center. But here I am, doing all the talking, and you justsit there.” Her smile revealed a dimple in her left cheek. “Now it’s your turn. Where do you come from?”
    â€œReno.”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    â€œLearning some California history,” Quinn said with con­siderable truth.
    â€œThat’s a funny way for a policeman to be spending his time.”
    â€œChacun à son gout , as they say in Hoboken.”
    â€œHow true,” she murmured. “Just as true here, I suppose, as it is in Hoboken.”
    Although her face didn’t change expression, Quinn had a feeling that he was being kidded, and that, if Miss Wilhelmina de Vries sang in a church choir or played in a string quartet, some of the notes she produced would he intentionally off-key just for the hell of it.
    â€œPlease tell me really and truly and honestly,” she said, “why you’re visiting Chicote.”
    â€œI like the climate.”
    â€œIt’s miserable.”
    â€œThe people.”
    â€œUncouth.”
    â€œThe cuisine.”
    â€œA starving dog would turn up his nose at this awful stuff. You know something? I’ll bet a dollar to a doughnut you’re working on a case.”
    â€œI’m a betting man but I’m fresh out of doughnuts.”
    â€œNo, seriously, you really are here on a case, aren’t you?” Her blue-green eyes glistened behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. “There hasn’t been anything interesting happen­ing lately so it has to be an old case.... Does it involve money, a lot of money?”
    It was one question Quinn could answer without hesitation. “Nothing I do involves a lot of money, Miss de Vries. What did you have in mind?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œSo you’re going down to Los Angeles to find a job?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhere’s your