Read Online The Polka Dot Nude by Joan Smith - Free Book Online Page B

to be having dinner with him tonight. I wouldn’t go, of course, but I’d let him waste a few hours preparing it. I couldn’t face a whole afternoon of waiting for him to leave his cottage. I’d go as soon as I finished my soup.
    About two spoonfuls before that happened, he came to my door. He didn’t open it, but just called through the screen. “I’m off to town to get some Grand Marnier for dinner. Do you need anything, Audrey? Cigarettes . . ."
    I kept my voice as close to normal as I could, to allay suspicion. “I’m out of beer.”
    “I’ll pick some up. See you at seven.”
    “You bet.”
    Through the screen I saw him back the Mercedes around and fly down the road, leaving the inevitable cloud of dust behind it. It was time to sneak into his cottage. Breaking and entering was the official term for what I had in mind. An indictable offense. But if it had been a capital one, it wouldn’t have stopped me; I was too mad.
    As soon as he was gone, I darted to his cottage. The front door was locked as tight as a drum. That in itself was suspicious. I went around, checking windows, and found the bedroom one wasn’t impossible to lift. It wasn’t easy either, but by exerting all my strength, I finally moved it. Scrambling in a window at chest level wasn’t easy or comfortable. I tore my shirt and scraped my legs through the jeans, but at last I found myself on the floor inside the cottage, headfirst.
    I took a cursory look around the bedroom. A small gold-framed picture of a woman on the beside table caught my attention. At that point, I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been himself with a wife and kids, but it was only a woman. I recognized the sweetly smiling face. I’d been looking at it enough lately. It was a photograph of Rosalie, at the height of her beauty. Why would he have a picture of Rosalie by his bed, if not to imbue himself with her aura? He must have actually interviewed someone who knew her, and stolen the picture.
    I hurried into the living room, heading straight for the desk, in hopes of finding the missing pages. A sheet of paper in the battered machine with neat, double-spaced typing on it caught my attention. My eye encountered no “prelapsarian” here, no “specious good.” What I read with deep interest was “From the rim of her low-cut scarlet gown, a creamy bosom flowed gently as she came timidly toward him.” The passage continued with many a throb and quiver, as the bosom was aided from the rim, molding itself compliantly to the warmth of his fingers, and engendering a shudder in his loins. Soon his manhood was swelling uncontrollably. I read on, till it—the manhood—was searing her vitals with a sweet sting. Despite her virginal timidity, she enjoyed the whole process to the point of ecstasy.
    I was furious that he was fictionalizing Rosalie’s sexual exploits with the breathless “I was there” quality and Day-glo colors expected from Hume Mason. If this was a sample of his book, it was garbage, and would be snatched up by the thousands, leaving Queen of Hearts a mile behind.
    A sheaf of pages was stacked beside the machine. With curiosity rampaging, I quickly looked through the sheets. There was no sign of the missing diary pages. It seemed to be Rosalie’s affair with the judge he was writing, though the man’s actual name wasn’t on any of the pages. She called him “my darling” and he called her “you eternal woman.” There was nothing like that in the diaries. Mason was unscrupulous, using every cheap trick in the book, and inventing a few of his own.
    I took a quick look through the drawer for letters, hoping to get the scheduled publication date. Right in the top drawer there was a long envelope with the Belton Publishing Company name in the corner. I didn’t hesitate a second before opening it. A Ms. Barlow was urging him on to the complete “the manuscript discussed by phone today” at top speed. No date was given, but the letter was dated two