Read Online Ken Kuhlken_Hickey Family Mystery 02 by The Venus Deal - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: The Venus Deal
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resort? Residence? Development property?”
“I’m a skeptic,” Hickey said. “I figure, when you’re in the market for something like stocks or land and you aren’t that familiar with the territory, you gotta trust your agent. You know Laurel Tucker long?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, you’re family?”
“We were both raised at Otherworld. Mr. Hickey, I could show you our listings. When Laurel returns, if you’d rather be in her hands, fine.”
“Otherworld. You a Theosophist?”
“Not any longer. Excuse me, I’ll call Mary to bring us the upstate listings.”
“Whoa,” Hickey said. “I’m not in a hurry. Let me ask—where I got the referral to Laurel was from her sister, Cynthia. She sings at my nightclub. I guess you know her, too.”
Only his paralysis kept Murphy in the chair. It looked like he’d suddenly bound over the desk and bash walls or people to splinters. Even his ears were crimson, and he spoke with an accent on every word. “I know the whole family, but I’m not going to talk about them, Mr. Hickey, except to assure you that Laurel is a good agent. You can trust her with your money. Personally…to speak of Laurel, her family, or Otherworld revives memories I’m in no mood for. Especially not now. A dear friend has died.”
“Sorry,” Hickey mumbled, honestly grieved to be pestering the man.
“You didn’t know better.” Murphy loosed his hands and wiped them on opposite sleeves, watching Hickey rise.
“Sorry anyway. One question, though. I might find Laurel around Mount Shasta?”
“Dunsmuir.”
“With her mother?”
“Yes.”
As Hickey weaved between the desks past the receptionist, lost in her novel, he brooded on the apparent coincidence that today he’d found, in the vicinity of Cynthia and the Tuckers, two strong men who’d both lived at Otherworld, both been Theosophists, and both gotten broken so cruelly it’d take an age full of miracles to fix them.
He followed Adams Avenue through Hillcrest and down off the mesa. Harbor mist and smoke from the Consolidated Aircraft factory blended into a haze that turned the sun cherry red and shot rosy streaks at the new moon. He turned off the Coast Highway into Pacific Beach hoping to get home and find a message waiting, from Clyde or Leo, about the girl turning up. Otherwise, he’d be driving all night. Which seemed painless compared to telling Madeline he had to leave.
He turned in to the alley and parked in the carport, noting that he should feel lucky the carport wasn’t inhabited by Castillo’s El Dorado or the sports coupe of some rich kid Elizabeth had met. He wasn’t keen on Madeline’s allowing boys to hang around. Though Elizabeth looked and acted older, she was only fourteen, until January. Going beyond your age could get dangerous, like it might’ve for Cynthia Tucker Moon. The couple times he and Madeline had argued about Elizabeth’s boyfriends, she’d patronized him, left him feeling like a doting wretch afraid to let his precious fly out of the nest.
He walked in through the kitchen door. A half dozen chicken drumsticks wrapped in butcher paper lay on the sinkboard. The shower was spraying, not loud enough to cover Madeline’s song. A number she used to sing with the orchestra Hickey led, years ago, about a guy who says he’s busy, but she thinks he’s out making whoopee.
He lay the manila envelope on the counter beside the drumsticks and stepped into the living room. The phone was on the coffee table. He sat and called Leo at home, where you could always reach him around suppertime.
“Weiss here.”
“Leonardo. What’d you learn?”
“That Bobby Wisdom’s a hophead, for one thing. You ever go to that flophouse of his, wear your gas mask.”
“Anything about Cynthia?”
“All he knows about her is what he saw one night at Rudy’s. Why’d you let the bum through the door? Only issue he’d address is which part of her he’d nibble first, given the opportunity. The other guy, the old
“I’m a skeptic,” Hickey said. “I figure, when you’re in the market for something like stocks or land and you aren’t that familiar with the territory, you gotta trust your agent. You know Laurel Tucker long?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, you’re family?”
“We were both raised at Otherworld. Mr. Hickey, I could show you our listings. When Laurel returns, if you’d rather be in her hands, fine.”
“Otherworld. You a Theosophist?”
“Not any longer. Excuse me, I’ll call Mary to bring us the upstate listings.”
“Whoa,” Hickey said. “I’m not in a hurry. Let me ask—where I got the referral to Laurel was from her sister, Cynthia. She sings at my nightclub. I guess you know her, too.”
Only his paralysis kept Murphy in the chair. It looked like he’d suddenly bound over the desk and bash walls or people to splinters. Even his ears were crimson, and he spoke with an accent on every word. “I know the whole family, but I’m not going to talk about them, Mr. Hickey, except to assure you that Laurel is a good agent. You can trust her with your money. Personally…to speak of Laurel, her family, or Otherworld revives memories I’m in no mood for. Especially not now. A dear friend has died.”
“Sorry,” Hickey mumbled, honestly grieved to be pestering the man.
“You didn’t know better.” Murphy loosed his hands and wiped them on opposite sleeves, watching Hickey rise.
“Sorry anyway. One question, though. I might find Laurel around Mount Shasta?”
“Dunsmuir.”
“With her mother?”
“Yes.”
As Hickey weaved between the desks past the receptionist, lost in her novel, he brooded on the apparent coincidence that today he’d found, in the vicinity of Cynthia and the Tuckers, two strong men who’d both lived at Otherworld, both been Theosophists, and both gotten broken so cruelly it’d take an age full of miracles to fix them.
He followed Adams Avenue through Hillcrest and down off the mesa. Harbor mist and smoke from the Consolidated Aircraft factory blended into a haze that turned the sun cherry red and shot rosy streaks at the new moon. He turned off the Coast Highway into Pacific Beach hoping to get home and find a message waiting, from Clyde or Leo, about the girl turning up. Otherwise, he’d be driving all night. Which seemed painless compared to telling Madeline he had to leave.
He turned in to the alley and parked in the carport, noting that he should feel lucky the carport wasn’t inhabited by Castillo’s El Dorado or the sports coupe of some rich kid Elizabeth had met. He wasn’t keen on Madeline’s allowing boys to hang around. Though Elizabeth looked and acted older, she was only fourteen, until January. Going beyond your age could get dangerous, like it might’ve for Cynthia Tucker Moon. The couple times he and Madeline had argued about Elizabeth’s boyfriends, she’d patronized him, left him feeling like a doting wretch afraid to let his precious fly out of the nest.
He walked in through the kitchen door. A half dozen chicken drumsticks wrapped in butcher paper lay on the sinkboard. The shower was spraying, not loud enough to cover Madeline’s song. A number she used to sing with the orchestra Hickey led, years ago, about a guy who says he’s busy, but she thinks he’s out making whoopee.
He lay the manila envelope on the counter beside the drumsticks and stepped into the living room. The phone was on the coffee table. He sat and called Leo at home, where you could always reach him around suppertime.
“Weiss here.”
“Leonardo. What’d you learn?”
“That Bobby Wisdom’s a hophead, for one thing. You ever go to that flophouse of his, wear your gas mask.”
“Anything about Cynthia?”
“All he knows about her is what he saw one night at Rudy’s. Why’d you let the bum through the door? Only issue he’d address is which part of her he’d nibble first, given the opportunity. The other guy, the old
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