daughter might be engaged to a fortune hunter. He’d been right, but the marriage had taken place anyway, and for now, anyway, daughter and fortune hunter were living happily in Miami, maybe even in love with each other.
Before driving here, Carver had phoned Ellen Pfitzer, and she’d agreed to meet him in the club lounge for a drink and to discuss Donna’s death. He was fifteen minutes early, so he chose a table by the window and ordered a Dewar’s and water, then sat watching a mixed doubles match in the nearest court. The woman at the far end of the court was a leggy redhead in a white and blue tennis outfit with a skimpy skirt. The other woman was a short blond, sturdily built, in a plain white outfit, who played with single-minded ferocity but was obviously the least accomplished of the four players. Both men were much younger and much smoother on the court, and seemed to be playing with some reserve. Carver guessed they were the women’s instructors. He wondered if either of the women was Ellen Pfitzer.
The short blond hit a forehand rocket, yelling with effort, but it was long and the redhead stood smugly, holding her racket back with both hands and watching the ball drop behind the line.
It must have been game point. The redhead’s partner gave her a big grin and a hug, then they and the other man walked off toward the part of the clubhouse containing lockers, saunas and exercise equipment. The blond woman backhanded sweat from her forehead and trudged toward the clubhouse. Despite her stockiness she had a graceful walk, the muscles in her firm, tan legs rippling with each step. Large breasts bounced slightly beneath her white pullover shirt. She had a figure made more for pinup calendars than for tennis. Her head was bowed and she was gazing at the ground in concentration as she passed from sight.
She must have stopped to freshen up. Ten minutes passed before she entered the lounge and stood looking around, ignoring the speculative glances of some of the men at the bar. She saw Carver, saw the cane where he’d leaned it against the table, and came toward him.
She had an open, friendly face with blue eyes and a slightly turned-up nose, and she was even shorter than she’d appeared on the court, probably under five feet.
“Ellen Pfitzer?” Carver asked.
She nodded, and he introduced himself and motioned for her to sit down.
When she was settled, the waiter appeared and she ordered a Tom Collins. Needed to cool off after the hotly contested tennis match in the sun.
“I was watching you play,” Carver said.
She smiled. “So what did you think?”
“That it was too hot for that kind of thing.”
“I only play because it’s great exercise and burns a lot of calories. I’m always fighting to keep my figure.”
“You’re winning,” Carver said.
She gave him another wide grin and took a long pull on the drink the waiter had placed in front of her. She lowered the glass and said, “Ah!” the way actors say it in TV commercials. Carver waited for her to sell him something.
“Donna’s funeral was this morning,” she said.
“I know. I didn’t go. I have a thing about funerals. They seem superfluous.”
“They are, of course,” Ellen said. “There weren’t many people there. Donna’s mother and daughter, a few of the people from the insurance company where Donna worked. I was a pallbearer, along with your friend Beth. The mortuary supplied most of the others.”
Carver hadn’t talked to Beth since early that morning. He wondered if there would be many mourners at Mark Winship’s funeral. “Did you know Donna’s husband?” he asked.
“We met a few times, but I wouldn’t say I knew him. Donna talked about him a lot, though. They were unhappy lately, but I guess that’s no secret.”
“She say why they were unhappy?”
Ellen took another sip of her drink, just nibbling at the ice this time, while her blue eyes sized up Carver as if he were a tennis opponent. She placed the
Before driving here, Carver had phoned Ellen Pfitzer, and she’d agreed to meet him in the club lounge for a drink and to discuss Donna’s death. He was fifteen minutes early, so he chose a table by the window and ordered a Dewar’s and water, then sat watching a mixed doubles match in the nearest court. The woman at the far end of the court was a leggy redhead in a white and blue tennis outfit with a skimpy skirt. The other woman was a short blond, sturdily built, in a plain white outfit, who played with single-minded ferocity but was obviously the least accomplished of the four players. Both men were much younger and much smoother on the court, and seemed to be playing with some reserve. Carver guessed they were the women’s instructors. He wondered if either of the women was Ellen Pfitzer.
The short blond hit a forehand rocket, yelling with effort, but it was long and the redhead stood smugly, holding her racket back with both hands and watching the ball drop behind the line.
It must have been game point. The redhead’s partner gave her a big grin and a hug, then they and the other man walked off toward the part of the clubhouse containing lockers, saunas and exercise equipment. The blond woman backhanded sweat from her forehead and trudged toward the clubhouse. Despite her stockiness she had a graceful walk, the muscles in her firm, tan legs rippling with each step. Large breasts bounced slightly beneath her white pullover shirt. She had a figure made more for pinup calendars than for tennis. Her head was bowed and she was gazing at the ground in concentration as she passed from sight.
She must have stopped to freshen up. Ten minutes passed before she entered the lounge and stood looking around, ignoring the speculative glances of some of the men at the bar. She saw Carver, saw the cane where he’d leaned it against the table, and came toward him.
She had an open, friendly face with blue eyes and a slightly turned-up nose, and she was even shorter than she’d appeared on the court, probably under five feet.
“Ellen Pfitzer?” Carver asked.
She nodded, and he introduced himself and motioned for her to sit down.
When she was settled, the waiter appeared and she ordered a Tom Collins. Needed to cool off after the hotly contested tennis match in the sun.
“I was watching you play,” Carver said.
She smiled. “So what did you think?”
“That it was too hot for that kind of thing.”
“I only play because it’s great exercise and burns a lot of calories. I’m always fighting to keep my figure.”
“You’re winning,” Carver said.
She gave him another wide grin and took a long pull on the drink the waiter had placed in front of her. She lowered the glass and said, “Ah!” the way actors say it in TV commercials. Carver waited for her to sell him something.
“Donna’s funeral was this morning,” she said.
“I know. I didn’t go. I have a thing about funerals. They seem superfluous.”
“They are, of course,” Ellen said. “There weren’t many people there. Donna’s mother and daughter, a few of the people from the insurance company where Donna worked. I was a pallbearer, along with your friend Beth. The mortuary supplied most of the others.”
Carver hadn’t talked to Beth since early that morning. He wondered if there would be many mourners at Mark Winship’s funeral. “Did you know Donna’s husband?” he asked.
“We met a few times, but I wouldn’t say I knew him. Donna talked about him a lot, though. They were unhappy lately, but I guess that’s no secret.”
“She say why they were unhappy?”
Ellen took another sip of her drink, just nibbling at the ice this time, while her blue eyes sized up Carver as if he were a tennis opponent. She placed the
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