Read Online Vertigo Park and Other Tall Tales by Mark O'Donnell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark O'Donnell
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horizon charismatically.
“How’s your new book coming?” she asked cautiously, watching the disheveled celebrity place the hatboxes on a side table.
“I mustn’t be disturbed,” he answered testily, and lit a cigarette. He proceeded to stack and rearrange the inscrutable boxes as if absorbed in a game whose rules were private and unfathomable. “Leave me, please. I’m very busy.”
“I hope all this commotion hasn’t broken your concentration,” Bitty ventured. “Aunt Addle had a fit of some kind.”
Mister Packaday turned to her indifferently, his eyes as cold as fancy spherical ice cubes one gets from novelty ice cube trays. “I heard nothing. I must work. I tire of you both. Go at once.”
This seemed a presumptuous request in a family room, but Bitty bore in mind that he was a guest. “Have you made any progress on your
Quick Weight-Loss Way to Riches
, Mister Packaday?” He continuedto move the hatboxes around the table, as if seeking a perfect configuration.
Anodyne attempted to flatter him into responding. “A famous writer like you must know a lot about human suffering,” she offered hopefully.
“It’s true, I do. Get out please.”
Bitty felt she had to be frank. “Isn’t there enough privacy in the room we fixed up for you, Mister Packaday?”
He eyed her as if by legal compulsion, and the ash from his cigarette fell to the floor like a whispered insult. “I can’t work with a dead body lying around. Tell whoever changes the linen.”
Anodyne was becoming agitated, a sign that she was finally growing up. “A dead body! Whose could it be? It doesn’t seem to be any of us!”
Mister Packaday stacked his boxes in an apparent imitation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, sighed enigmatically, and turned to face Bitty again. “I didn’t think it was my responsibility. But it seemed to be wearing corrective underwear.”
“Uncle Fleck!” theorized Bitty. “He
has
been missing!”
Young Doctor Salvage returned from the kitchen holding a large pair of hedge clippers.
“As near as I can tell from the autopsy,” he said tersely, “your aunt failed to wash her hands after petting the cat. Infection was immediate.”
“But she wasn’t dead five minutes ago!” protested Bitty, her head beginning to spin like a washing machine full of mismatched whites and colors.
“By the way,” the doctor continued. “I don’t meanto alarm you, but it seems as if your phone lines have been cut.”
“A killer, or at any rate, fatal germs loose at Rancho Contento!” cried Anodyne. “This takes the cake for spooky!”
“Calm yourself,” cautioned Bitty. “You know what perspiration stains do to your clothes!”
Surprisingly, it was the urbane Pilsener Packaday who suddenly panicked. “No phone! What if the pet store wants to reach me!”
“What are you talking about, Mister Packaday?” Bitty asked. “By the way, this is Blaine Salvage. Doctor, Pilsener Packaday.”
The distracted author gathered his hatboxes and stumbled up the stairs to his room. “They’re not going to get us! We’re going away! Far away!”
“They? Us?” Bitty struggled to understand.
“I’ll give him a sedative,” Doctor Salvage said briskly. He opened his hedge clippers and followed Packaday up the stairs. “Smoking, no matter what they say, does not calm the nerves!”
Anodyne clutched Bitty in a frightened but non-suggestive manner. “Who’s getting who, Bitty? And what’s in those hatboxes?”
Before she could recap the story any further, the shadow of a figure filled the front doorway, which had been standing open since the doctor arrived. Anodyne jumped like a jackalope, but Bitty faced the intruder. It was Lazlo, the surly half-breed gardener. Nothing grew in the parched desert, which is one reason he was surly, but another might have beenthat years before, when he had first come to Rancho Contento, Lazlo had been sleepwalking, owing perhaps to his conflicted nationalities, and groggy Uncle
“How’s your new book coming?” she asked cautiously, watching the disheveled celebrity place the hatboxes on a side table.
“I mustn’t be disturbed,” he answered testily, and lit a cigarette. He proceeded to stack and rearrange the inscrutable boxes as if absorbed in a game whose rules were private and unfathomable. “Leave me, please. I’m very busy.”
“I hope all this commotion hasn’t broken your concentration,” Bitty ventured. “Aunt Addle had a fit of some kind.”
Mister Packaday turned to her indifferently, his eyes as cold as fancy spherical ice cubes one gets from novelty ice cube trays. “I heard nothing. I must work. I tire of you both. Go at once.”
This seemed a presumptuous request in a family room, but Bitty bore in mind that he was a guest. “Have you made any progress on your
Quick Weight-Loss Way to Riches
, Mister Packaday?” He continuedto move the hatboxes around the table, as if seeking a perfect configuration.
Anodyne attempted to flatter him into responding. “A famous writer like you must know a lot about human suffering,” she offered hopefully.
“It’s true, I do. Get out please.”
Bitty felt she had to be frank. “Isn’t there enough privacy in the room we fixed up for you, Mister Packaday?”
He eyed her as if by legal compulsion, and the ash from his cigarette fell to the floor like a whispered insult. “I can’t work with a dead body lying around. Tell whoever changes the linen.”
Anodyne was becoming agitated, a sign that she was finally growing up. “A dead body! Whose could it be? It doesn’t seem to be any of us!”
Mister Packaday stacked his boxes in an apparent imitation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, sighed enigmatically, and turned to face Bitty again. “I didn’t think it was my responsibility. But it seemed to be wearing corrective underwear.”
“Uncle Fleck!” theorized Bitty. “He
has
been missing!”
Young Doctor Salvage returned from the kitchen holding a large pair of hedge clippers.
“As near as I can tell from the autopsy,” he said tersely, “your aunt failed to wash her hands after petting the cat. Infection was immediate.”
“But she wasn’t dead five minutes ago!” protested Bitty, her head beginning to spin like a washing machine full of mismatched whites and colors.
“By the way,” the doctor continued. “I don’t meanto alarm you, but it seems as if your phone lines have been cut.”
“A killer, or at any rate, fatal germs loose at Rancho Contento!” cried Anodyne. “This takes the cake for spooky!”
“Calm yourself,” cautioned Bitty. “You know what perspiration stains do to your clothes!”
Surprisingly, it was the urbane Pilsener Packaday who suddenly panicked. “No phone! What if the pet store wants to reach me!”
“What are you talking about, Mister Packaday?” Bitty asked. “By the way, this is Blaine Salvage. Doctor, Pilsener Packaday.”
The distracted author gathered his hatboxes and stumbled up the stairs to his room. “They’re not going to get us! We’re going away! Far away!”
“They? Us?” Bitty struggled to understand.
“I’ll give him a sedative,” Doctor Salvage said briskly. He opened his hedge clippers and followed Packaday up the stairs. “Smoking, no matter what they say, does not calm the nerves!”
Anodyne clutched Bitty in a frightened but non-suggestive manner. “Who’s getting who, Bitty? And what’s in those hatboxes?”
Before she could recap the story any further, the shadow of a figure filled the front doorway, which had been standing open since the doctor arrived. Anodyne jumped like a jackalope, but Bitty faced the intruder. It was Lazlo, the surly half-breed gardener. Nothing grew in the parched desert, which is one reason he was surly, but another might have beenthat years before, when he had first come to Rancho Contento, Lazlo had been sleepwalking, owing perhaps to his conflicted nationalities, and groggy Uncle
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