girl like Grady—she probably has no idea."
Mary Ellen poured herself a very full glass from the new bottle of wine.
"And you think Lenny might be with her?"
Spraggue tried to catch Mrs. Martinson's eye. Impossible.
" Do you like this wine?" She held her glass of golden liquid up toward the ceiling, peering at it through one half-closed eye.
Lavalier Cellars. Spraggue read the label, couldn't place the name. The wine seemed raw to him, unfinished, uncouth. No match for Holloway Hills.
"Yes," he lied quickly. "Now——"
Mary Ellen swirled her glass, inhaled deeply. "You're going to be hearing about this wine. You bet your sweet—"
" I had the distinct feeling that this Grady was in Lenny's past," George Martinson said, "that he'd dropped her."
" Because of the child?"
" Who knows? According to the gossip——" Martinson stopped abruptly.
" According to the gossip," Spraggue repeated painstakingly, "who would Lenny be with now?"
Mary Ellen giggled and sloshed her wine over the white tablecloth. "Rumor is that he's shacked up with Holloway Hills and Valleys—over at your place"
Martinson's shrug took in his drunken wife, the sodden tablecloth, the late hour, and Mary Ellen's revelation. "That's what I've heard, too," he agreed, almost apologetically. "Phil Leider told me he sure couldn't match Kate Holloway's offer!"
7
Spraggue didn't escape the Martinsons until La Belle Helene's staff practically threw them out at eleven-thirty. Their party was the last to quit the dining room. Spraggue felt the same relief he saw on the faces of the waiters.
Mary Ellen Martinson was falling-down drunk. George virtually carried her, his right arm viselike around her shoulders. His face had the slow flush of alcohol, but he bundled his wife off into the car in a businesslike fashion, as if he'd rehearsed the routine before. He pulled her red skirt down over her thighs.
" Ride?" he asked Spraggue.
" No, thanks. Sure you're okay to drive?"
Martinson's face reddened even more. "I have a great capacity for wine." He gazed discontentedly at Mary Ellen, slack-jawed and faintly snoring in the passenger seat. "Unfortunately, my wife does not share that gift."
The statement needed no confirmation. Spraggue banged Martinson's car door shut with more than necessary force and headed back to his car, glad he'd drunk so little of the wine, sorry that Mary Ellen had felt the need to compensate for his restraint. What game were they playing, those two? A simple round of capture-an-innocent-bystander-for-dinner to alleviate their mutual boredom? Or a deeper charade? And what was Martinson up to, encouraging Mary Ellen to guzzle her drinks like a combat-zone pro, refilling her drained glass the moment she set it down, then lamenting over her limited capacity? The drunker she got, the wider her husband's grin. And now Martinson would chauffeur her home and stuff her into bed unconscious. How many nights a week did they play out that scenario?
A warning bell sounded somewhere in Spraggue's head, cautioning him to back off and leave such speculation strictly alone. Turn on some blaring radio station, it urged him. Memorize those movie lines. Anything to avoid getting snared in the spiderweb of strangers' lives.
How could he ever have been a private investigator? The answer may have puzzled Kate, but it was no mystery to Spraggue, just an outgrowth of the same desire to live other lives that drove him as an actor. How would you play a man like George Martinson? What made people tick and tick and keep on ticking years after the mechanism should have run down?
But acting wasn't life. Three years of delving into reality had taught him that there weren't any pretty painted proscenium arches to frame messy slice-of-life melodramas with meaning. No safe scripts with all the loose ends tied in careful knots. No resolutions, no illusions, no curtain calls. The best you could hope for was to shelter a tiny circle of loved ones from disaster
Mary Ellen poured herself a very full glass from the new bottle of wine.
"And you think Lenny might be with her?"
Spraggue tried to catch Mrs. Martinson's eye. Impossible.
" Do you like this wine?" She held her glass of golden liquid up toward the ceiling, peering at it through one half-closed eye.
Lavalier Cellars. Spraggue read the label, couldn't place the name. The wine seemed raw to him, unfinished, uncouth. No match for Holloway Hills.
"Yes," he lied quickly. "Now——"
Mary Ellen swirled her glass, inhaled deeply. "You're going to be hearing about this wine. You bet your sweet—"
" I had the distinct feeling that this Grady was in Lenny's past," George Martinson said, "that he'd dropped her."
" Because of the child?"
" Who knows? According to the gossip——" Martinson stopped abruptly.
" According to the gossip," Spraggue repeated painstakingly, "who would Lenny be with now?"
Mary Ellen giggled and sloshed her wine over the white tablecloth. "Rumor is that he's shacked up with Holloway Hills and Valleys—over at your place"
Martinson's shrug took in his drunken wife, the sodden tablecloth, the late hour, and Mary Ellen's revelation. "That's what I've heard, too," he agreed, almost apologetically. "Phil Leider told me he sure couldn't match Kate Holloway's offer!"
7
Spraggue didn't escape the Martinsons until La Belle Helene's staff practically threw them out at eleven-thirty. Their party was the last to quit the dining room. Spraggue felt the same relief he saw on the faces of the waiters.
Mary Ellen Martinson was falling-down drunk. George virtually carried her, his right arm viselike around her shoulders. His face had the slow flush of alcohol, but he bundled his wife off into the car in a businesslike fashion, as if he'd rehearsed the routine before. He pulled her red skirt down over her thighs.
" Ride?" he asked Spraggue.
" No, thanks. Sure you're okay to drive?"
Martinson's face reddened even more. "I have a great capacity for wine." He gazed discontentedly at Mary Ellen, slack-jawed and faintly snoring in the passenger seat. "Unfortunately, my wife does not share that gift."
The statement needed no confirmation. Spraggue banged Martinson's car door shut with more than necessary force and headed back to his car, glad he'd drunk so little of the wine, sorry that Mary Ellen had felt the need to compensate for his restraint. What game were they playing, those two? A simple round of capture-an-innocent-bystander-for-dinner to alleviate their mutual boredom? Or a deeper charade? And what was Martinson up to, encouraging Mary Ellen to guzzle her drinks like a combat-zone pro, refilling her drained glass the moment she set it down, then lamenting over her limited capacity? The drunker she got, the wider her husband's grin. And now Martinson would chauffeur her home and stuff her into bed unconscious. How many nights a week did they play out that scenario?
A warning bell sounded somewhere in Spraggue's head, cautioning him to back off and leave such speculation strictly alone. Turn on some blaring radio station, it urged him. Memorize those movie lines. Anything to avoid getting snared in the spiderweb of strangers' lives.
How could he ever have been a private investigator? The answer may have puzzled Kate, but it was no mystery to Spraggue, just an outgrowth of the same desire to live other lives that drove him as an actor. How would you play a man like George Martinson? What made people tick and tick and keep on ticking years after the mechanism should have run down?
But acting wasn't life. Three years of delving into reality had taught him that there weren't any pretty painted proscenium arches to frame messy slice-of-life melodramas with meaning. No safe scripts with all the loose ends tied in careful knots. No resolutions, no illusions, no curtain calls. The best you could hope for was to shelter a tiny circle of loved ones from disaster
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