Read Online McNally's Gamble by Lawrence Sanders - Free Book Online
Authors: Lawrence Sanders
Tags: Suspense
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you do that, Edythe, may I ask if you’d have any objection if I contacted Mr. Clemens and used you as a reference?”
“I’d have no objection whatsoever. But I should warn you Fred is very particular about the clients he takes on. I mean he doesn’t just accept everyone. Why, I had to talk a long time to persuade him to invest my money.”
“Well, all I can do is try. Thank you for a delightful luncheon and answering all my questions. I do appreciate it.”
“It has been fun, hasn’t it? And you’re a very charming young man. I must tell Madeleine how fortunate she is to have a son like you. Now come and meet my lovely daughter, Natalie.”
She pulled me out to the hallway. Standing at the foot of a graceful staircase, she tilted her head back and bellowed, “Nettie! Come down this instant!”
There isn’t a hog caller in Iowa who could have equaled her decibel level.
CHAPTER 9
W E WAITED A MOMENT on the portico steps until Mrs. Westmore drove out in her new white Caddy. She waved to us and I lifted a hand in response. But Natalie just stood there stolidly, head lowered.
I turned to her. “Well...” I said and gave her my Supercharmer smile—100 watts. I thought it best to save the Jumbocharmer (150 watts) for emergencies. “Well, Nettie, shall we take a look around? I may address you as Nettie, mayn’t I?”
“If you like,” she said indifferently.
Her apathy didn’t disturb me because I was delighted with her voice: low, soft, almost timorous. What a welcome relief from her mama’s manic bray.
We wandered out onto the grounds and passed the open garage. There was still one car within: a six-year-old Toyota Corolla that looked as if it had been cruelly mistreated.
“Yours?” I asked idly.
She nodded. “I inherited it from my sister-in-law,” she said, and I heard the bitterness in her tone. “Helen has a new Buick Riviera in a special color. Lavender.”
“Nice,” I said. “Nettie, would you mind if I smoked a cigarette?”
“Yes, I would,” she said. “You shouldn’t smoke. You’ll get lung cancer.”
“I know. I also drink, which will give me cirrhosis. And I breathe even though the air is horribly polluted.”
She made a small noise and I turned to look at her. I hoped she might have laughed. It would be gratifying from such a somber young woman. I paused a moment to glance around. “Wonderful trees,” I commented. “The old banyan is magnificent.”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s the tree daddy fell out of and then he died. Should we go back to the house now?”
She was hurrying me and I resented it. “In a moment,” I said. “The small structure back there in the foliage... What is that used for?”
“You wouldn’t be interested.”
I stared at her. “Nettie, we seem to be having a slight problem communicating. I am interested.”
“Well, it’s my studio. Where I paint.”
“May I see it?”
“If you like,” she said, totally impassive again.
She walked a step or two ahead of me. She was wearing a long bleached denim skirt, almost to her ankles. And above was a knitted sweater in a heathery green. It was sleeveless but the cool breeze didn’t seem a bother. Her bare arms were muscled and I couldn’t decide if she had a deep suntan or if her skin was naturally tawny.
She had her mother’s height but, fortunately, not her girth. In fact she was quite slender. And flat. Boardlike would be a fitting adjective. But she moved gracefully with a floating stride. Her blond-ish hair was cut short and so ragged I wondered if she barbered herself.
As for her features, my mother’s verdict, “not pretty but interesting, almost foreign-looking,” was close to the mark. I had seen her narrow face before in Modigliani portraits. Natalie had the same curious mixture of mystery and passivity Amedeo had caught on canvas.
The door to the studio was closed with a padlock so old and rusty it looked as if a strong yank might spring the shackle. Natalie fished a
“I’d have no objection whatsoever. But I should warn you Fred is very particular about the clients he takes on. I mean he doesn’t just accept everyone. Why, I had to talk a long time to persuade him to invest my money.”
“Well, all I can do is try. Thank you for a delightful luncheon and answering all my questions. I do appreciate it.”
“It has been fun, hasn’t it? And you’re a very charming young man. I must tell Madeleine how fortunate she is to have a son like you. Now come and meet my lovely daughter, Natalie.”
She pulled me out to the hallway. Standing at the foot of a graceful staircase, she tilted her head back and bellowed, “Nettie! Come down this instant!”
There isn’t a hog caller in Iowa who could have equaled her decibel level.
CHAPTER 9
W E WAITED A MOMENT on the portico steps until Mrs. Westmore drove out in her new white Caddy. She waved to us and I lifted a hand in response. But Natalie just stood there stolidly, head lowered.
I turned to her. “Well...” I said and gave her my Supercharmer smile—100 watts. I thought it best to save the Jumbocharmer (150 watts) for emergencies. “Well, Nettie, shall we take a look around? I may address you as Nettie, mayn’t I?”
“If you like,” she said indifferently.
Her apathy didn’t disturb me because I was delighted with her voice: low, soft, almost timorous. What a welcome relief from her mama’s manic bray.
We wandered out onto the grounds and passed the open garage. There was still one car within: a six-year-old Toyota Corolla that looked as if it had been cruelly mistreated.
“Yours?” I asked idly.
She nodded. “I inherited it from my sister-in-law,” she said, and I heard the bitterness in her tone. “Helen has a new Buick Riviera in a special color. Lavender.”
“Nice,” I said. “Nettie, would you mind if I smoked a cigarette?”
“Yes, I would,” she said. “You shouldn’t smoke. You’ll get lung cancer.”
“I know. I also drink, which will give me cirrhosis. And I breathe even though the air is horribly polluted.”
She made a small noise and I turned to look at her. I hoped she might have laughed. It would be gratifying from such a somber young woman. I paused a moment to glance around. “Wonderful trees,” I commented. “The old banyan is magnificent.”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s the tree daddy fell out of and then he died. Should we go back to the house now?”
She was hurrying me and I resented it. “In a moment,” I said. “The small structure back there in the foliage... What is that used for?”
“You wouldn’t be interested.”
I stared at her. “Nettie, we seem to be having a slight problem communicating. I am interested.”
“Well, it’s my studio. Where I paint.”
“May I see it?”
“If you like,” she said, totally impassive again.
She walked a step or two ahead of me. She was wearing a long bleached denim skirt, almost to her ankles. And above was a knitted sweater in a heathery green. It was sleeveless but the cool breeze didn’t seem a bother. Her bare arms were muscled and I couldn’t decide if she had a deep suntan or if her skin was naturally tawny.
She had her mother’s height but, fortunately, not her girth. In fact she was quite slender. And flat. Boardlike would be a fitting adjective. But she moved gracefully with a floating stride. Her blond-ish hair was cut short and so ragged I wondered if she barbered herself.
As for her features, my mother’s verdict, “not pretty but interesting, almost foreign-looking,” was close to the mark. I had seen her narrow face before in Modigliani portraits. Natalie had the same curious mixture of mystery and passivity Amedeo had caught on canvas.
The door to the studio was closed with a padlock so old and rusty it looked as if a strong yank might spring the shackle. Natalie fished a
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