Read Online The Dreadful Lemon Sky by John D. MacDonald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John D. MacDonald
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Crime, Private Investigators, Mystery Fiction, Hard-Boiled, Fort Lauderdale (Fla.), McGee; Travis (Fictitious character)
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like some kind of… debris."
She braced her fists on his desk and leaned closer to him. "That is not my sister! That is a body! That is debris! My sister is not in there any more and there is no reason for you to… to try to get me to worship the empty body, damn you, you greedy old man!"
He moved around the side of the desk, his face quiet as any death mask, and said, "Excuse me. I'll have this account recomputed. It will take just a few minutes."
He went out a side door. When it was open I could hear an electric typewriter rattling away. When he closed it behind him, she turned blindly into my arms. She rolled her head against my shoulder and gave three big gulping sobs and then pulled herself together, pushed away from me, honked into a Kleenex, and tried to smile. "Was I okay?" she asked.
"You were beautiful."
"I was pretending I was Carrie and it was me who was dead. She'd never let him take advantage. I was just so confused when he gave me the bill before."
"Is the memorial service to be here?"
"Oh, no. Betty Joller sort of arranged it. It's going to be on the beach there at Mangrove Lane where she used to live."
Rucker Senior came back into the room and tried to hand her the new billing. I reached across her and took it. It was far more specific. It came to $686.50. I noticed he had included a sixty-dollar urn, sixty-two forty with tax. I was tempted to strike it but decided it was best to let him have a minor victory.
"Here are the rings from the deceased," he said, holding out a small manila envelope. She hesitated, and I took that also and slipped it into my shirt pocket.
"Satisfactory arrangements for payment will have to be made," the man said.
I took out my money clip, slipped the currency out of it, and counted out seven one-hundred-dollar bills on the front edge of his desk. "We'll need thirteen fifty in change and your certification on this bill, Mr. Rucker."
He expressed his opinion by looking most carefully at each bill, back and front. He made change from his own pocket and receipted the bill. Paid in Full. B. J. Rucker, Sr.
"You may pick up the urn here between one and two tomorrow afternoon," he said.
I nodded. There were no good-bys. We walked out.
Out in the afternoon sunshine of the parking lot, she swayed against me, leaned heavily on my arm as we walked. She shook her head and straightened up and lengthened her stride.
"He had me go back in there and see her," she said. "I thought there was some mistake. Her face wasn't the right shape even. She looked like she was made of wax. He showed me how the inside of the casket is all quilted, the kind he was selling me. Would he have really had it burned up, or would he have saved it for the next person?"
"I think B.J. would have it burned up."
The lower angle of the sun had stretched casuarina shadows across our two bright little cars. Before she unlocked the Datsun she turned to face me and said, "About that money in there, I'll be able to…"
"It was your money."
"What do you mean?"
"I owed it to Carrie."
"Is that true? Is that really true?"
"Really true."
"How much did you owe her?"
"It's a long story."
"Well, I'd like to know."
"She told you to trust me."
"Yes…?"
"Trust me not to tell you now, and trust me to have good reasons not to tell you. Okay?"
She looked at me for a long moment and then slowly nodded. "Okay, Mr. McGee." Her hair was long, and a couple of shades darker than Carrie's cropped silvery mop. The face was as round as Carrie's, the cheekbones high and heavy, but her eyes had more of a Slavic tilt, and their color was a seagreen-gray.
I made her try calling me Trav, and after three times it came easier and she smiled.
"How long are you going to stay?"
"Well, I guess until the lawyer says it's okay to go back to New Jersey. I've got to sort out all her stuff in that apartment. It's in a terrible mess. Somebody broke in and tore up the furniture and rugs and emptied everything out on the floor."
"When
She braced her fists on his desk and leaned closer to him. "That is not my sister! That is a body! That is debris! My sister is not in there any more and there is no reason for you to… to try to get me to worship the empty body, damn you, you greedy old man!"
He moved around the side of the desk, his face quiet as any death mask, and said, "Excuse me. I'll have this account recomputed. It will take just a few minutes."
He went out a side door. When it was open I could hear an electric typewriter rattling away. When he closed it behind him, she turned blindly into my arms. She rolled her head against my shoulder and gave three big gulping sobs and then pulled herself together, pushed away from me, honked into a Kleenex, and tried to smile. "Was I okay?" she asked.
"You were beautiful."
"I was pretending I was Carrie and it was me who was dead. She'd never let him take advantage. I was just so confused when he gave me the bill before."
"Is the memorial service to be here?"
"Oh, no. Betty Joller sort of arranged it. It's going to be on the beach there at Mangrove Lane where she used to live."
Rucker Senior came back into the room and tried to hand her the new billing. I reached across her and took it. It was far more specific. It came to $686.50. I noticed he had included a sixty-dollar urn, sixty-two forty with tax. I was tempted to strike it but decided it was best to let him have a minor victory.
"Here are the rings from the deceased," he said, holding out a small manila envelope. She hesitated, and I took that also and slipped it into my shirt pocket.
"Satisfactory arrangements for payment will have to be made," the man said.
I took out my money clip, slipped the currency out of it, and counted out seven one-hundred-dollar bills on the front edge of his desk. "We'll need thirteen fifty in change and your certification on this bill, Mr. Rucker."
He expressed his opinion by looking most carefully at each bill, back and front. He made change from his own pocket and receipted the bill. Paid in Full. B. J. Rucker, Sr.
"You may pick up the urn here between one and two tomorrow afternoon," he said.
I nodded. There were no good-bys. We walked out.
Out in the afternoon sunshine of the parking lot, she swayed against me, leaned heavily on my arm as we walked. She shook her head and straightened up and lengthened her stride.
"He had me go back in there and see her," she said. "I thought there was some mistake. Her face wasn't the right shape even. She looked like she was made of wax. He showed me how the inside of the casket is all quilted, the kind he was selling me. Would he have really had it burned up, or would he have saved it for the next person?"
"I think B.J. would have it burned up."
The lower angle of the sun had stretched casuarina shadows across our two bright little cars. Before she unlocked the Datsun she turned to face me and said, "About that money in there, I'll be able to…"
"It was your money."
"What do you mean?"
"I owed it to Carrie."
"Is that true? Is that really true?"
"Really true."
"How much did you owe her?"
"It's a long story."
"Well, I'd like to know."
"She told you to trust me."
"Yes…?"
"Trust me not to tell you now, and trust me to have good reasons not to tell you. Okay?"
She looked at me for a long moment and then slowly nodded. "Okay, Mr. McGee." Her hair was long, and a couple of shades darker than Carrie's cropped silvery mop. The face was as round as Carrie's, the cheekbones high and heavy, but her eyes had more of a Slavic tilt, and their color was a seagreen-gray.
I made her try calling me Trav, and after three times it came easier and she smiled.
"How long are you going to stay?"
"Well, I guess until the lawyer says it's okay to go back to New Jersey. I've got to sort out all her stuff in that apartment. It's in a terrible mess. Somebody broke in and tore up the furniture and rugs and emptied everything out on the floor."
"When
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