Read Online Huckleberry Fiend by Julie Smith - Free Book Online Page A

ought to have a more open mind.”
    Booker started opening her dresser drawers and going through them with the utmost care, even, I thought, caressing certain intimate garments rather more tenderly than necessary. I was starting to worry, but watching him later— going through towels, papers, even kitchen utensils— I realized that was just the way he worked. With utmost care.
    Because he wanted to get the job done fast, he condescended to let me take the trunk, though I’m sure my ham-handed touch must have driven him nearly mad. As it happened, the trunk was Isami’s laundry hamper; thus there was no need in the world for a delicate approach. Next I looked under the bed and in the closet. Booker carefully checked under the pillows and under the mattress. If Isami had the manuscript, it wasn’t in her room.
    Next we went through the bathroom and the kitchen. Finally, we entered Beverly’s room. A chamber more different from Isami’s would have been difficult to imagine. One wall held her books, others, traditional art she’d probably picked up traveling— African tribal masks, Balinese paintings, Japanese scrolls. A good collection, both eclectic and extensive. The bed was covered with a simple white down comforter, and the other furniture was white wicker. The overall effect was rather tropical, certainly very individual. Briefly, I wondered why I hadn’t seen her taste anywhere else in the apartment. Then I saw a cluster of pictures of herself that she’d arranged on her dresser and I thought I knew.
    She was the female equivalent of Wanda Kimbrough’s hunky blond— a gorgeous blonde in a sporty, wind-blown, conventional sort of way. In the pictures she wore tennis togs, safari clothes, jeans, and fancy dresses, everything looking made for her— and not more than ten minutes earlier, either. Something about her was just a little too sleek, reminding one more of a panther than a cat. There was a smugness there, and a lot of vanity, and a no-holds-barred acquisitiveness.
    All that I got from a few photographs in near-darkness. With that kind of imagination, it’s no accident I write fiction, probably, but in that moment I felt I had a real sense of Beverly Alexander. I thought the reason she’d holed up in here, rather than actually spread herself throughout the apartment, was simply that the idea would never have occurred to her. She was older, better educated, far worldlier than Isami Nakamura and didn’t, in her own eyes, really live with Isami, I was sure. Just a little on the shorts and passing through till something better came along.
    “You take the dresser,” said Booker and, happily, I plunged in. Quite truthfully, I was enjoying myself. There was something evilly satisfying about going through someone else’s things. I thought I could understand Booker’s pleasurable sigh when we came in.
    There were scarves in the first drawer, and a jewelry box. There was really no need to look in the box, but, frankly, I was carried away. I found a long rope of pearls, gold bracelets, ivory bracelets, and every kind of earrings— sapphire, ruby, emerald, diamond. Just studs, to be sure, but here was a woman who liked her gems. I imagined I heard her voice. “Paul, darling, how did you know?” as she ripped off the wrapping paper. And then I heard it echoing and echoing, again and again.
    On to the underwear, which I’m afraid I handled quite as tenderly as Booker had handled Isami’s. It was silk and filmy and after all, how often did a man have a chance to touch women’s underwear? If you wanted to feel your girlfriend’s (without her in it) she’d think you were a pervert. Yet women were permitted to handle and caress these dainty things any time they wanted to. I thought of touching my cheek with one of those camisoles, just to see what it would feel like, but worried that Booker might see. I wondered if he did that sort of thing when he burgled alone and felt a shiver up the spine. These forbidden