Read Online The Dirty Duck by Martha Grimes - Free Book Online Page B

hair. The presence of Gwendolyn Bracegirdle clung to these things like scent, even though she’d been in this room for only a few days.
    Before Lasko started going through the drawers, he said to Jury. “Why don’t you have a little talk with the landlady?” His eyes were imploring.
    â€œSure,” said Jury. As long as he was here . . .
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    Mrs. Mayberry was fortifying herself with a cup of tea in the breakfast room-cum-parlor. One weak bulb glowed thriftily in the rose-shaded lamp on the sideboard. The sideboard told him he’d been right about breakfast: cereal boxes sat in a row beside a brace of tiny juice glasses that would provide one large swallow apiece. There were three round tables, each with its complement of mismatched chairs, and each with its centerpiece of mismatched condiments. Mustard for breakfast?
    â€œOn the Saturday she came,” said Mrs. Mayberry. “Came at the same time as the man and wife in Number Ten. I don’t mean together; she didn’t know them.”
    â€œDid she get friendly with any of the others while she was here?”
    â€œWell, now, I don’t know, do I? I don’t mix with my guests. In the morning I’m in the kitchen. One’s got to look sharp these days to see breakfast’s done proper and the rooms cleaned and so forth. We’ve got to do the cooked breakfasts up in advance, the eggs and such, as they will all come in at the same time, won’t they? Even though we serve from seven-thirty. Spot on nine they all troop in—” She pushed her frizzy hair off her forehead and shook and shook her head. “My checkout time’s eleven and the linen’s got to be changed—”
    Feeling as if he were being interviewed for a job, Jury cut in on her: “I’m sure it’s very difficult. But there must have been someone here who passed the time of day with Miss Bracegirdle.”
    â€œMaybe she talked with my Patsy who waits at table and does some of the upstairs work. Called in sick today, she did, and I felt like sacking her.”
    Jury interrupted this recounting of domestic problems: “Did she take any phone calls while she was here?”
    â€œNo, none I know of. You might ask Patsy that. She answers a lot of the time.”
    The guest register, which Mrs. Mayberry had been rather proud to bring in from the little hall table, was open in front of Jury. Looking down at the small but florid signature of Gwendolyn Bracegirdle, he said, “Sarasota, Florida.”
    â€œThat’s right, Florida.” She fingered the bottle of catsup. “I get lots of them from Florida. Of course, lately there’ve been a lot of British going to Florida. It’s ever so cheap, they tell me. I wouldn’t mind a bit of a holiday myself, but as you can see, there’s so much business here that I never do get away—”
    â€œWe’ll have to talk with the other guests here, Mrs. Mayberry. There’s evidence that Miss Bracegirdle was with someone when she met with her, ah, accident.”
    Her face was a sheet of horror. “Here? You’re not saying—”
    â€œNot saying anything. We’re just gathering information.”
    But the thought that she might be giving bed and breakfast to a murderer was, to her, not the issue: “The Diamond Hill Guest House isn’t going to be in the papers, now is it? Nothing’s ever happened here . . .”
    It brought back to Jury his own consoling words to Farraday that nothing ever happened in Stratford.
    â€œWe try to keep things out of the papers.”
    â€œWell, I should certainly think the Diamond Hill Guest House shouldn’t have to have its good name besmirched . . . It certainly wouldn’t do my business any good. Even with travel so expensive these days, the Americans still come. Stratford’s just as popular, more popular, than ever. In