Read Online The Glass Slipper by Mignon G. Eberhart - Free Book Online Page A

was the first time, really, that Juliet had seen her in her new role.
    “Miss Garder,” said Gross and disappeared.
    “Juliet.”
    “Hello, Rue.”
    She shook hands. She was as spare, as plain as ever, with the lines on her thin face as sharply carved. Her brown topcoat was a little shabby, her hat at an unfashionable angle, her pale friendly brown eyes looked tired and were rimmed in pink. She looked at Rue and blinked slowly and said again: “Hello — Rue —”
    “Why, Juliet! What’s the matter?”
    “N-nothing,” said Juliet and went to a chair. She sat down a little unsteadily, fumbling for the arms of the chair.
    “Let me take your coat.”
    “Coat’s — all right,” said Juliet, staring straight at Rue and making an obvious effort to speak.
    “Julie —” Rue checked herself. She went to the girl and took her gloves and the worn purse which seemed about to drop from Julie’s shiny, bony fingers. Julie lifted one hand and pushed her hat back on her head and stared glassily at Rue, and Rue caught a whiff of alcohol and cried: “Julie, you’re drunk!”
    Julie never drank; she was a militant teetotaller, and Rue knew it.
    “Just a cocktail,” said Juliet, her thin lips pulled apart in a grin that was like a grimace. “Just a little tiny cocktail. Pink. Say, Rue — there was something I came to see you about. This — you know…” She turned and waved a hand at the bed. “Crystal Hatterick. You know — murdered — I know — I know something about that. You know it too. I came to tell you, but now I’m not going to tell. Understand, Julie — I mean, Rue. You’re not to tell a thing. Besides, memory is always false. Remember that, Julie — I mean Rue. Rue Hatterick, married to Brule Hatterick. Crystal Hatterick murdered. Memory always false. Tricks you. I was here — in this very room. Remember that screen,” said Juliet and closed her eyes; her head fell forward sleepily.
    “Remember — what do you mean? Julie. What do I know? Juliet, wake up. Tell me —”
    “Sleepy,” muttered Julie. “Changed my mind. Don’t trust… memory…”
    “Julie!”
    Rue hesitated, went across the room and touched the bell twice. Tea would be up. Strong black tea was what Julie needed.
    It came almost at once. Gross carried the tray, and Rue, not wanting him to see Juliet, took the tray at the door herself and brought it to the low table before the fireplace. Julie did not look up or rouse, and Rue went back to the door behind the screen and closed it, shutting out the distant sound of the piano — a phrase had reached her ears and she recognized it; it was from the piano score of a modern piece of Steven’s own composition, full of violent dissonance. She returned. She didn’t know she was excited until she lifted the teapot and tried to pour the tea and her hand shook so she spilled it. It was hot and strong, and she waited for it to cool a little, stirring it, watching the nurse.
    At last she took the cup to Julie and lifted her head.
    “Listen. Listen, Julie. Wake up. Drink this.”
    Julie opened her eyes. “Had cocktail,” she said fuzzily and with great effort. “Don’t want tea…”
    “Drink it,” said Rue and held it to her lips. The girl gulped but did not wince at the hot liquid, and drank as if she did not know what she was doing.
    Perhaps she drank half a cup before she choked and slumped sidewise in her chair. Her plain little hat dropped off; her hair was flat and not very tidy and gave her a defenseless look. Rue got a cushion and tried to prop Julie’s head comfortably with it.
    But something was wrong. She couldn’t make Julie’s head stay on the pillow. She couldn’t hold Julie upright. Something was terribly wrong in that rose-scented room where Crystal Hatterick had died.
    From habit her fingers went to Julie’s pulse. Went and sought along the white, thin wrist and sought feverishly, terrified, for a flutter that was not there.
    “Julie… Julie…”
    It wasn’t