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Authors: Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo
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noted.
“When I went in to air the guest room, like I do every morning, I saw we had company and told Mr. McNally.” Ursi spoke as she poured my coffee. “That was before Mrs. Marsden’s visit, when we only suspected who the guest might be. We didn’t know you had gone to fetch Mrs. Williams’s child until Mrs. Marsden told us—she having got that news from poor Hattie.”
My head was spinning, but not too fast for me to protest, “She’s not a child, Ursi. Twenty-one, at least.” I accepted the steaming cup of java with thanks and joined Jamie at the table.
“Can I get you a proper breakfast, Mr. Archy?” Ursi offered.
“No time, but I could hang around long enough for a toasted muffin.”
Father knew, but obviously had not told them, who occupied our guest room. If he had, he would have had to tell them about the murder before he knew all the facts, which was not Prescott McNally’s style. Also, I’m sure, he didn’t want to upset Mother with the news sooner than was necessary. “So why,” I thought aloud, “did you suspect it was Veronica before Mrs. Marsden played Paul Revere?”
“Because of Hobo.” It was Jamie who answered.
“Hobo?” My stomach quivered, threatening to eject the hot coffee I was pouring into it.
“When Hobo attacked your friend parking the Mercedes...”
Thanks to Lolly’s mention of Binky being in need of a rabies shot, I didn’t have to hear the rest of Jamie’s story.
“What a ruckus!” Ursi exclaimed, serving my muffin, which I doubted I could get down, let alone keep down.
“When I heard the racket,” Jamie continued, “I went down to see what was going on. Hobo had him by the ankle and I had all to do to shake him loose.” I wanted to ask Jamie if it was Hobo or Binky who got shook, but refrained.
“What a sight,” Ursi said. “I watched from the window, ready to call the police if need be, but then I recognized your friend, Mr. Archy, and told Jamie it was okay.”
“Wasn’t there someone with Binky?”
“Yes,” Jamie said. “There was a car behind the Mercedes, but the boy in it wouldn’t get out to help the other lad.”
“He was afraid of Hobo biting him, too,” Ursi said. “I offered to wash and bandage the boy’s leg, but he refused my help. Just drove off with his friend.”
I had the disquieting feeling that I was trapped inside an Olsen and Johnson movie.
“This Binky said the car belonged to Veronica Manning and he was delivering it on your orders, Mr. Archy. Then he limped off to the other car. That’s why we suspected it was her in the guest room,” Ursi finished.
I didn’t think I could take much more, but I had to know—“Why was father late this morning? Why couldn’t you just move the Mercedes so he could get the Lexus out of the garage?”
“No key,” Jamie said and went no further. I wondered if he had spoken his allotted number of words for the day and whether I would I have to wait until tomorrow for the rest of the story.
“The key wasn’t in the ignition?” I prompted.
Jamie shook his head.
“Did you try the glove compartment?”
Jamie nodded.
“And?”
“It was locked,” Ursi said. “We had to jimmy the lock.”
“I figure,” Jamie began, coming to life, “that the boy opened the glove compartment with the ignition key, but didn’t actually unlock it, if you get what I mean—then he put the key in the compartment, and when he closed the door, he locked the key inside.”
I silently sentenced Binky Watrous to a year in the pen with Hobo as his cellmate.
Mother was in the greenhouse surrounded by her beloved begonias. She wore a printed dress and gardening gloves and sported a dark smudge on her forehead. In this verdant setting, she looked as calm, serene, and happy as this lovely lady had every right to be. I had foolishly, and perhaps naïvely, hoped to keep mother from learning about the murder, but Mrs. Marsden’s visit had brought about the inevitable sooner rather than
“When I went in to air the guest room, like I do every morning, I saw we had company and told Mr. McNally.” Ursi spoke as she poured my coffee. “That was before Mrs. Marsden’s visit, when we only suspected who the guest might be. We didn’t know you had gone to fetch Mrs. Williams’s child until Mrs. Marsden told us—she having got that news from poor Hattie.”
My head was spinning, but not too fast for me to protest, “She’s not a child, Ursi. Twenty-one, at least.” I accepted the steaming cup of java with thanks and joined Jamie at the table.
“Can I get you a proper breakfast, Mr. Archy?” Ursi offered.
“No time, but I could hang around long enough for a toasted muffin.”
Father knew, but obviously had not told them, who occupied our guest room. If he had, he would have had to tell them about the murder before he knew all the facts, which was not Prescott McNally’s style. Also, I’m sure, he didn’t want to upset Mother with the news sooner than was necessary. “So why,” I thought aloud, “did you suspect it was Veronica before Mrs. Marsden played Paul Revere?”
“Because of Hobo.” It was Jamie who answered.
“Hobo?” My stomach quivered, threatening to eject the hot coffee I was pouring into it.
“When Hobo attacked your friend parking the Mercedes...”
Thanks to Lolly’s mention of Binky being in need of a rabies shot, I didn’t have to hear the rest of Jamie’s story.
“What a ruckus!” Ursi exclaimed, serving my muffin, which I doubted I could get down, let alone keep down.
“When I heard the racket,” Jamie continued, “I went down to see what was going on. Hobo had him by the ankle and I had all to do to shake him loose.” I wanted to ask Jamie if it was Hobo or Binky who got shook, but refrained.
“What a sight,” Ursi said. “I watched from the window, ready to call the police if need be, but then I recognized your friend, Mr. Archy, and told Jamie it was okay.”
“Wasn’t there someone with Binky?”
“Yes,” Jamie said. “There was a car behind the Mercedes, but the boy in it wouldn’t get out to help the other lad.”
“He was afraid of Hobo biting him, too,” Ursi said. “I offered to wash and bandage the boy’s leg, but he refused my help. Just drove off with his friend.”
I had the disquieting feeling that I was trapped inside an Olsen and Johnson movie.
“This Binky said the car belonged to Veronica Manning and he was delivering it on your orders, Mr. Archy. Then he limped off to the other car. That’s why we suspected it was her in the guest room,” Ursi finished.
I didn’t think I could take much more, but I had to know—“Why was father late this morning? Why couldn’t you just move the Mercedes so he could get the Lexus out of the garage?”
“No key,” Jamie said and went no further. I wondered if he had spoken his allotted number of words for the day and whether I would I have to wait until tomorrow for the rest of the story.
“The key wasn’t in the ignition?” I prompted.
Jamie shook his head.
“Did you try the glove compartment?”
Jamie nodded.
“And?”
“It was locked,” Ursi said. “We had to jimmy the lock.”
“I figure,” Jamie began, coming to life, “that the boy opened the glove compartment with the ignition key, but didn’t actually unlock it, if you get what I mean—then he put the key in the compartment, and when he closed the door, he locked the key inside.”
I silently sentenced Binky Watrous to a year in the pen with Hobo as his cellmate.
Mother was in the greenhouse surrounded by her beloved begonias. She wore a printed dress and gardening gloves and sported a dark smudge on her forehead. In this verdant setting, she looked as calm, serene, and happy as this lovely lady had every right to be. I had foolishly, and perhaps naïvely, hoped to keep mother from learning about the murder, but Mrs. Marsden’s visit had brought about the inevitable sooner rather than
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