Read Online Strawman Made Steel by Brett Adams - Free Book Online Page B

her head.
    “Not a lot for a modern lady,” I said.
    “Dorrita said it makes one lazy, and I have
come to agree.”
    “You look after them? Holidays, insurance?”
    “Dorrita always gave them one night a week
to be free to follow their dreams. He knew what it was to be the kicking boy.”
    “Which day is that?”
    “Thursday. It has always been Thursday.”
    As I surveyed the drawing room, I was
imagining the butler dusting its shelves in a neat white apron. Half of the
wooden furniture looked antique. A dark oak bookcase probably dated from at
least the early 1900s. Most antiques did—those that hadn’t been broken for
firewood in the bleak winters after the Event, or salvaged for smelting in the
rebuild. Furniture built post-2000 wasn’t known for its longevity.
    On a shelf, a plant potted in an
age-cracked biomass battery box provided a jarring note to the old-world taste.
The plant was asleep in the day, the only evidence of its genetic tinkering the
faintest glowing tracery of veins in its leaves. Come night, its
bioluminescence would serve as an exquisitely expensive nightlight.
    My attention was hooked by a row of
glass-fronted boxes, the kind that usually contain pin-stuck bugs. But there
were no bugs. Each box held a different object, and I strained in the dim light
to make them out.
    Evelyne noticed my gaze and a smile touched
her lips.
    “I call it my damp rag collection.” She
twisted lithely and pointed to the first in the row. A faint sparkle glimmered
from within it. “That one contains a twenty-five carat diamond said to have
been grown, using a process in vogue two centuries ago, from the bequeathed
remains of an entire orchestra. It was given to me by the former CEO of DL Plastics
Ltd. He sought to woo me and avert a takeover. I let him woo me, then bought
his company the following morning. A damp rag is all that was left of that once
powerful man.”
    I lost interest. “Trophies,” I said, and
her teeth showed white.
    “Yes, Mr. McIlwraith, trophies,” she said,
and her smile vanished. “When my husband died he left me alone, in charge of
one of this country’s largest family empires. How long do you think it was
before New York’s vultures began to circle?”
    I didn’t answer. My thoughts were drifting
out the window to the garden that commanded a view of Manhattan, when I heard a
voice rumble from the direction of the front door.
    Evelyne’s eyes glittered as she said,
“Eustace is here. He always visits his mother.”
    Heavy footsteps announced the approach of
the eldest male Speigh. He entered the drawing room and came to rest over feet
splayed at shoulder width. He took his time surveying the setup without a trace
of self-consciousness. I couldn’t read the expression he fixed on his mother.
    Eustace Speigh stood maybe five foot nine
inches tall. He was compact. Compact like a block of granite, compressed. He
was wearing too much for the weather, but the angles of his shoulders and the
bulges of his muscles were visible through the coarse twill coat he’d neglected
to doff. Beneath its wide lapels was visible a grey flannel jacket. A starched
cotton shirt, foulard, and khaki slacks completed the picture of a businessman
pretending at an Ivy League education. His loafers were the tell―they lacked
the patina of long wear.
    “You the dick?” he said, and waved the hat
he held crumpled in his hand in my direction. His thick, dark eyebrows were
separated by pinched skin. His face had a male heaviness.
    “You tell me, Mr. Speigh. I thought I was
investigating a murder. But maybe I’m the butt of an elaborate joke. Most of
your family seem to be having a gay old time.”
    The dark brows throttled that pinch of
skin. He shifted his weight over his feet.
    “What the hell are you implying?” He said
it low, with control. This was no muppet.
    “Implying nothing. Your brother’s in the
freezer, and you seem about as upset as a beagle at open season.”
    “Different strokes. I