Read Online The Horse You Came in On by Martha Grimes - Free Book Online Page A

brought in the telephone extension. “Long distance, sir, from America.”
    â€œEllen!” Melrose straightened suddenly and came out of the somnolent state the presence of his aunt usually induced. “Where the hell are you? . . . Baltimore?”
    Agatha relaxed her ear a bit. Whoever Ellen was, she was far enough away to present no immediate problem.
    â€œYour book? Yes, yes, I did. Thank you.” Pained, Melrose’s eye strayed to the end table where Ellen’s book had been lying, unfinished. “I know it won that award, yes, I know. That’s wonder— . . . like it?” Since he hadn’t read all of it, his answer would be qualified a bit. “Naturally. Yes . . . Oh, quite, well, different. ”
    The book in question was now in Agatha’s hands. Hand —in the other was a brandy snap. Ellen’s book had been stacked atop Polly Praed’s newest which she had sent to Melrose in the form of galleys. Perhaps he should become an editor?
    â€œCome to Baltimore? ” Oh, Christ, why had he said it aloud? Agatha was staring over the top of the book. She had even stopped chewing. “I’ll see. . . . Well, yes, I know I said I would . . .”
    What Ellen told him next was rather surprising, and he only barely missed echoing it when he saw Agatha’s eyes riveted on him. So he registered no emotion, no interest, just kept saying “umm” and “ohmm” like a mantra, as Ellen related her little tale.
    It was so difficult for him to make a trip, to bestir himself, to drag himself away from hearth and home and the Jack and Hammer. He sighed. He would like to see Ellen, though. “Policeman? . . . Are you talking about Richard Jury?” Pretending not to remember his name! “He’s going to be visiting me, as a matter of fact. . . . Yes, but, Ellen, Scotland Yard CID men cannot simply throw up everything and go racing off to the States.” Actually, Jury could drop anything he damn pleased, given he was on leave. “. . . In another day or two. Yes.” Thatwas when Jury was supposed to come. He wanted to see Pratt in Northampton, for some reason.
    Agatha was all ears. She was even forgetting to eat her brandy snap. He really should have taken this call out of Agatha’s earshot—if there was such a place. Saddam Hussein’s bunker, perhaps. Melrose sipped his sherry, said, “I absolutely promise, Ellen. . . . Yes. I’ll call. . . . Yes. . . . No. . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . . No. . . . No. . . . Goodbye.”
    â€œI know that name—I’m sure of it. Ellen, Ellen. Haven’t I met this person?” Actually, she had. At Victoria Station when Vivian had been leaving that time for Italy.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou’re not considering going to the States, my dear Plant?”
    â€œNo.” Yes, he was. Not only was he very fond of Ellen, but he knew she would have slashed her wrists before calling him if she hadn’t been in dire straits. He frowned. He had no doubt about the “dire,” but he wondered if the “straits” were what she’d said they were.
    â€œI should think not. However, if you do, let me know, of course, and I’ll go along, as I haven’t seen the Fusts in years and I would like to have a chat with them over Debrett’s. Now here’s a Life Baroness. ‘Dixie Bellows . . .’ ”
    Dream on, thought Melrose.
III
    â€œ. . . a mere count,” Agatha was saying now in the Jack and Hammer, relegating Count Franco Giopinno to the title scrap heap. “Now the Fusts—”
    â€œWere merer barons,” said Melrose.
    Diane Demorney, still pushing her bit of arcana about like a stale canapé on the cocktail platter, cut across the Fust family’s baronetcy, saying,