Read Online The Dirt Peddler by Dorien Grey - Free Book Online Page B

sweatshirt, over which she wore a paint-smudged, dark blue smock.
    “Come in,” she said with a smile.
    I followed her into the living room, half of which was set up with a large drafting table, a couple of smaller easels, and a small work table upon which was a jumble of art supplies. Leaning against the legs of the drafting table were several varying-sized tablets of drawing paper.
    She led me to one of two comfortable-looking chairs facing each other beside the large window and separated by a large coffee table. There was no couch. On one wall were about six framed, brightly colored illustrations, obviously from children’s books.
    “Would you like some tea?” Her voice had a rather pleasant, almost musical quality—the kind of voice I somehow associated with a storyteller reading to small children.
    “No, thank you.”
    She smiled as she took the seat opposite me. “So what has Tony gotten himself into this time?”
    “He’s being blackmailed,” I said, deciding to get right to the point.
    She did not look surprised.
    “ Poor Tony,” she said with a Mona Lisa smile.
    I waited for her to ask what he was being blackmailed for, but she didn’t. I couldn’t tell whether it was because she already knew, or she just didn’t care.
    “Would you have any idea who might want to blackmail him?”
    The small smile became a broad one. “My darling Tony has the ability to attract enemies the way a dog attracts fleas. I can imagine very few people who have ever met him who wouldn’t want to blackmail him if they had the chance. He’s just ‘that kind of guy.’”
    “I don’t mean to be rude, but would that include you, by any chance?”
    She looked pensive for a moment.
    “Why, I suppose it might, if I wanted anything from him, which I don’t. I make enough on my own to get by. I would far rather be rid of him and poor than still married to him and rich.”
    “And you get alimony?”
    “Oh, yes. Very generous. It almost covers my grocery bill each month. But I didn’t and don’t want anything from him. You’d have to have been married to him for thirteen years to fully understand.”
    She certainly sounded convincing, but I really found it hard to believe she wouldn’t be harboring at least some resentment, as her words clearly indicated.
    “Could you tell me a little about your relationship with Mr. Tunderew?”
    “Current or past?”
    “Both, actually.”
    A whistling sound from the kitchen caught her just as she’d opened her mouth to speak, and she got up quickly from her chair. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some tea?”
    “I’m sure, but please don’t let me stop you from having some.”
    She smiled and moved toward the kitchen. “I’ll only be a moment.”
    While she was out of the room, I turned my attention to the framed illustrations. Mostly watercolors with a few pastels, they were really wonderful. A fine balance of not-quite-realism and pure whimsy, I could see why kids would love them.
    She returned a minute or so later with a heavy white coffee mug of the type I automatically associated with just about every all-night diner I’d ever been in. The tab of a tea bag draped over the edge. She also had a piece of paper towel and a large spoon, which she placed in front of her on the coffee table as she sat back down.
    “So.” She leaned back in her chair, ignoring the cup for the moment. “My life with the famous Tony T. Tunderew…an overview or a thirteen-year day-by-day account?”
    I grinned. “The overview will be fine.”
    She leaned forward, picked up the tab of the tea bag with one hand and the spoon with the other, and bobbed the bag up and down several times, finally removing it from the cup and placing it on the spoon.
    She twisted the string several times around the bag to force the excess water out, then set the spoon and bag on the paper towel.
    “We met,” she said, picking up the cup and again leaning back in her chair, “in Chicago. I was at the Art