Read Online Malarkey by Sheila Simonson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sheila Simonson
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great disk. Classy."
"Super," Tracy chimed in. "We call it Going for Baroque and
it's got everything—architecture, sculpture, theater, music, Rubens
up the kazoo. Liam did three major gardens, including Blenheim, for
the Great Creating Nature bit."
"What do you mean 'did' the gardens?"
"Photographed them," McDiarmuid said. "Some video.
Mostly stills. There are grand gardens at Powerscourt, by the by,
Mrs. Dodge. Just up the Dublin road."
"Did you film them, too?"
He shook his head. "Powerscourt's nineteenth century, too
late for the disk."
"Liam's a brilliant photographer," Barbara assured me,
earnest. "He did combat footage in Bosnia for the Irish Times ."
McDiarmuid gave her another ironic salute with the wine
glass. "Prepared me to fight off the hordes at Blenheim."
"Lee's film of Blenheim," Tracy said with an ecstatic sigh, "is
pure Bach."
Alex smiled at her. "Tracy did the audio, Lark."
Dad said, "I didn't know you were musical, Tracy."
"The disk sounds fascinating." I was having trouble
imagining how all those things could fit together. So far neither of my
computers could read CD-ROM disks. "Is the disk, er, interactive?" I
had at least heard that buzzword.
All five of them hastened to assure me how thoroughly
interactive their creation was. Dad listened with an air of
bemusement. Alex poured another round of wine.
The Stonehall shop talk, though confusing, was less
uncomfortable than hearing them gripe about the late Slade
Wheeler. I thought how quickly they had put Grace Flynn from their
minds, but my judgment may have been unfair. They didn't know me,
and only Tracy and the Steins knew my father. I wondered what they
might have said of Grace had we not been there.
My stomach was approaching lunch Pacific Standard Time
or a late dinner Greenwich Mean Time. In other words it rumbled. I
wondered whether my father was tired. I was tired, and I needed to
call Jay. Abruptly I decided to do just that.
Alex seemed the softer-hearted of the two Steins. I pulled
him aside and explained. He led me down the hall to a small office
with one of those intimidating devices equipped with fax, voicemail,
intercom, and assorted mysterious buttons with asterisks. I have a
simpler phone in my bookstore.
He showed me how to get an outside line. "That should do it
if the post office isn't on strike."
"What?"
"All public communications, including the post office and the
telephone system, come under the aegis of one government
department. The workers are a moody lot. They strike at the drop of
a hat. I don't think they're out this week, though. You're in luck."
I may have been in luck at the Stanyon Hall end, but I was
out of luck at home. I got our message tape again and said something
noncommittal. Jay was probably still at the college. If I had called him
there, I would have got the building secretary or his voicemail.
Discouraged but relieved, I hung up.
As I made my way back to the salon, a voice hailed me from
above. "Who're you?"
I watched a black apparition descend the staircase. It had to
be Kayla Wheeler. She wore black tights, a black mini-skirt, and a
black tee shirt with the logo of some obscure band fading across her
not insignificant bosom. Her hair was dyed dead black, and she wore
grape-purple lipstick and a lot of black eye gunk against matte-white
foundation. Her fingers were loaded with blackening silver
rings.
On a ninety pound, nineteen-year-old waif, the
Transylvanian get-up would have been effective if a bit passé,
but Kayla was almost as large as her brother had been and the
poundage was less compactly distributed. She was also at least five
years older. I was too dumbstruck by her appearance to respond to
her question, so she repeated it.
"Who the bloody hell are you?"
I introduced myself without embellishment, explained that I
had found her brother's body, and offered my sympathy.
She wasn't interested. Her watery gray eyes wandered as I
spoke. "I got lost down a fucking servants' stair.
"Super," Tracy chimed in. "We call it Going for Baroque and
it's got everything—architecture, sculpture, theater, music, Rubens
up the kazoo. Liam did three major gardens, including Blenheim, for
the Great Creating Nature bit."
"What do you mean 'did' the gardens?"
"Photographed them," McDiarmuid said. "Some video.
Mostly stills. There are grand gardens at Powerscourt, by the by,
Mrs. Dodge. Just up the Dublin road."
"Did you film them, too?"
He shook his head. "Powerscourt's nineteenth century, too
late for the disk."
"Liam's a brilliant photographer," Barbara assured me,
earnest. "He did combat footage in Bosnia for the Irish Times ."
McDiarmuid gave her another ironic salute with the wine
glass. "Prepared me to fight off the hordes at Blenheim."
"Lee's film of Blenheim," Tracy said with an ecstatic sigh, "is
pure Bach."
Alex smiled at her. "Tracy did the audio, Lark."
Dad said, "I didn't know you were musical, Tracy."
"The disk sounds fascinating." I was having trouble
imagining how all those things could fit together. So far neither of my
computers could read CD-ROM disks. "Is the disk, er, interactive?" I
had at least heard that buzzword.
All five of them hastened to assure me how thoroughly
interactive their creation was. Dad listened with an air of
bemusement. Alex poured another round of wine.
The Stonehall shop talk, though confusing, was less
uncomfortable than hearing them gripe about the late Slade
Wheeler. I thought how quickly they had put Grace Flynn from their
minds, but my judgment may have been unfair. They didn't know me,
and only Tracy and the Steins knew my father. I wondered what they
might have said of Grace had we not been there.
My stomach was approaching lunch Pacific Standard Time
or a late dinner Greenwich Mean Time. In other words it rumbled. I
wondered whether my father was tired. I was tired, and I needed to
call Jay. Abruptly I decided to do just that.
Alex seemed the softer-hearted of the two Steins. I pulled
him aside and explained. He led me down the hall to a small office
with one of those intimidating devices equipped with fax, voicemail,
intercom, and assorted mysterious buttons with asterisks. I have a
simpler phone in my bookstore.
He showed me how to get an outside line. "That should do it
if the post office isn't on strike."
"What?"
"All public communications, including the post office and the
telephone system, come under the aegis of one government
department. The workers are a moody lot. They strike at the drop of
a hat. I don't think they're out this week, though. You're in luck."
I may have been in luck at the Stanyon Hall end, but I was
out of luck at home. I got our message tape again and said something
noncommittal. Jay was probably still at the college. If I had called him
there, I would have got the building secretary or his voicemail.
Discouraged but relieved, I hung up.
As I made my way back to the salon, a voice hailed me from
above. "Who're you?"
I watched a black apparition descend the staircase. It had to
be Kayla Wheeler. She wore black tights, a black mini-skirt, and a
black tee shirt with the logo of some obscure band fading across her
not insignificant bosom. Her hair was dyed dead black, and she wore
grape-purple lipstick and a lot of black eye gunk against matte-white
foundation. Her fingers were loaded with blackening silver
rings.
On a ninety pound, nineteen-year-old waif, the
Transylvanian get-up would have been effective if a bit passé,
but Kayla was almost as large as her brother had been and the
poundage was less compactly distributed. She was also at least five
years older. I was too dumbstruck by her appearance to respond to
her question, so she repeated it.
"Who the bloody hell are you?"
I introduced myself without embellishment, explained that I
had found her brother's body, and offered my sympathy.
She wasn't interested. Her watery gray eyes wandered as I
spoke. "I got lost down a fucking servants' stair.
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