Read Online Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons by Julie Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Julie Smith
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changed so fast it was hard to know what went with what. For all I knew you wore pink polka dots to signify S&M these days.
“Who’s next on the list?”
“Let’s do another girlfriend. I’m dying to see if we’ve got a pattern here.”
“How about Felicity Wainwright, the oncologist? What do you bet she’s just a bundle of giggles?” Felicity lived in San Mateo, which meant quite a little drive, so it was midmorning by the time we got there. Our plan to surprise people in their beds was rapidly falling apart.
Her house was lovely— Spanish-style stucco, the house of someone who’d been well rewarded for fighting cancer. I wondered what the job was like. If most patients lived, it was one thing— if they didn’t, it must be one of the hardest jobs in the world. She was probably away, I realized; anyone who lived that stressful a life probably beat a retreat on weekends.
But there were two teenagers on her porch, a boy and a girl, the girl eating yogurt and granola, the boy practically doing handstands to amuse her. And it looked as if it was working. She kept putting down her bowl and laughing, sometimes touching brow to knees, holding on to her ankles. She had light red hair that hung to the middle of her back in perfect curls, as if she had an expensive perm, but I was willing to bet she was just lucky. Lucky to have that hair, live in that house, be fourteen and in love. She probably didn’t own a single black garment.
“Is this the Wainwright residence?”
“Uh-huh. You want to see my mom?”
I nodded.
“Mo-om!” It was a piercing shriek.
“Yes?”
I’d been expecting a harried parent to rush out the door holding her ears. Instead, a woman rounded the corner of the house, wearing khaki capris and gardening gloves, which she was pulling off delicately, finger by finger.
“Felicity Wainwright?”
She nodded, wary.
Rob said who he was. “And this is Rebecca Schwartz.” No more ID than that, which was fine with me. “I was a friend of Jason McKendrick’s. I wonder if you’d mind talking about him with us?”
“For a newspaper story?” She was petite, almost birdlike— and from the look on her face, she’d fly away if the answer was yes.
“Actually … not yet. We’re very concerned, as you might imagine. And frankly, we’re a little pissed that the police haven’t arrested anyone. So, I guess you could say this is background right now— we’re trying to find out who had a reason to kill Jason.”
The two kids on the porch were riveted. Wainwright glanced at them nervously. “Let’s go in back, shall we?”
We walked behind her, Rob admiring her tiny, perfect butt. I knew that because I knew him so well, but then anybody would have. Felicity Wainwright was one of those perfectly shaped tiny women who made you feel like picking them up like a baby and counting their fingers and toes. Like her daughter, she was a redhead, copper hair cut short and bouncing about her head in unruly curls. Her face was more pink and white than the usual redhead gold, more a blonde’s coloring, and her eyes were a very light blue, azure almost, and they were round, which gave her a look of innocence and youth. She looked almost as much like a teenager as her daughter— and about as likely to wear black. There was something about the curls, or perhaps an Irish shaped face— elflike, with pointy chin— that made her look merry as the month of May.
She took us to a patio paved with flagstones and seated us at a white table under a Cinzano umbrella. She laid her dirty gardening gloves on the table as if they were white-lace ones and this were a formal occasion. “Would you like some iced tea?”
“Sure,” said Rob, though I would have declined, eager to get to the interview. He had told me once that he always accepted beverages, it got people used to the idea that he’d be awhile. So I nodded, going along.
When we were all genteelly sipping, Wainwright said, “I don’t know how I can
“Who’s next on the list?”
“Let’s do another girlfriend. I’m dying to see if we’ve got a pattern here.”
“How about Felicity Wainwright, the oncologist? What do you bet she’s just a bundle of giggles?” Felicity lived in San Mateo, which meant quite a little drive, so it was midmorning by the time we got there. Our plan to surprise people in their beds was rapidly falling apart.
Her house was lovely— Spanish-style stucco, the house of someone who’d been well rewarded for fighting cancer. I wondered what the job was like. If most patients lived, it was one thing— if they didn’t, it must be one of the hardest jobs in the world. She was probably away, I realized; anyone who lived that stressful a life probably beat a retreat on weekends.
But there were two teenagers on her porch, a boy and a girl, the girl eating yogurt and granola, the boy practically doing handstands to amuse her. And it looked as if it was working. She kept putting down her bowl and laughing, sometimes touching brow to knees, holding on to her ankles. She had light red hair that hung to the middle of her back in perfect curls, as if she had an expensive perm, but I was willing to bet she was just lucky. Lucky to have that hair, live in that house, be fourteen and in love. She probably didn’t own a single black garment.
“Is this the Wainwright residence?”
“Uh-huh. You want to see my mom?”
I nodded.
“Mo-om!” It was a piercing shriek.
“Yes?”
I’d been expecting a harried parent to rush out the door holding her ears. Instead, a woman rounded the corner of the house, wearing khaki capris and gardening gloves, which she was pulling off delicately, finger by finger.
“Felicity Wainwright?”
She nodded, wary.
Rob said who he was. “And this is Rebecca Schwartz.” No more ID than that, which was fine with me. “I was a friend of Jason McKendrick’s. I wonder if you’d mind talking about him with us?”
“For a newspaper story?” She was petite, almost birdlike— and from the look on her face, she’d fly away if the answer was yes.
“Actually … not yet. We’re very concerned, as you might imagine. And frankly, we’re a little pissed that the police haven’t arrested anyone. So, I guess you could say this is background right now— we’re trying to find out who had a reason to kill Jason.”
The two kids on the porch were riveted. Wainwright glanced at them nervously. “Let’s go in back, shall we?”
We walked behind her, Rob admiring her tiny, perfect butt. I knew that because I knew him so well, but then anybody would have. Felicity Wainwright was one of those perfectly shaped tiny women who made you feel like picking them up like a baby and counting their fingers and toes. Like her daughter, she was a redhead, copper hair cut short and bouncing about her head in unruly curls. Her face was more pink and white than the usual redhead gold, more a blonde’s coloring, and her eyes were a very light blue, azure almost, and they were round, which gave her a look of innocence and youth. She looked almost as much like a teenager as her daughter— and about as likely to wear black. There was something about the curls, or perhaps an Irish shaped face— elflike, with pointy chin— that made her look merry as the month of May.
She took us to a patio paved with flagstones and seated us at a white table under a Cinzano umbrella. She laid her dirty gardening gloves on the table as if they were white-lace ones and this were a formal occasion. “Would you like some iced tea?”
“Sure,” said Rob, though I would have declined, eager to get to the interview. He had told me once that he always accepted beverages, it got people used to the idea that he’d be awhile. So I nodded, going along.
When we were all genteelly sipping, Wainwright said, “I don’t know how I can
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