Bride of the Rat God by Barbara Hambly Page B

clasped her hands before her breast. “Such a terrible, terrible tragedy, and then for news of an even greater horror to pursue him...”. Norah could see her rehearsing poses for interview pictures. There were even tears in her eyes.
    “Enough to break your heart,” remarked Mr. Mindelbaum.
    Brown glared at him. “And if I hear one word beyond that,” he added, “you’re going to be back taking pictures of kids on ponies in Lubbock. I’ll see you all in the station at seven.”
    “I can’t believe Mr. Sandringham did such a thing.” Norah settled her back against one of the pillars that supported the roof of the porch, from which a flight of brick steps dropped precipitously to the few feet of grass and ivy that bordered the road. Frank Brown’s car was making its careful way up the drive to Ivarene Street again, rocking a little with the uneven surface; the producer had catechized Christine on the subject of who was in the library with whom when and why she shouldn’t mention her recollections of just when Brown had hauled her away from dance competitions with the girls from the Cocoanut Grove. From the living room behind her Norah could hear that breathless voice: “Murdered, Flindy darling! Absolutely horrible! Frank’s just been up here, and Charlie Sandringham’s left town.”
    She rolled her eyes. Rain still pattered on the eucalyptus trees that grew on the hillside above and below the rough shoulder on which the house was perched, and in the gray afternoon light the tangles of Spanish dagger, stunted oak, and other bizarre growths she could not identify blended into a somber mottling of dark and light greens. Even more amazing than the indoor plumbing—wonderful to Norah after a lifetime of chamber pots and “backhouses” in her parents’ and Mrs. Pendergast’s old-fashioned establishments—were the green grass of the California December, the geraniums and the roses. Another world indeed.
    The pink stucco house, like a miniature Mediterranean castle, was the only visible dwelling in this part of the hills, though Norah knew other lots had been sold. Hollywood—in fact, the entire Los Angeles basin—was a patchwork of real estate developments. A few hills over, some enterprising salesman had erected enormous white letters spelling out HOLLYWOODLAND above a housing development of that name; it was plastered with lightbulbs and could be seen for miles.
    “Is that why you gave them the time Charlie must have left the party?” Mr. Mindelbaum perched himself next to her on the low parapet and plucked a long, narrow leaf from the oleander that grew almost up to the level of their elbows. In spite of the rain, the day was not cold, at least not compared to Manchester. Though the cameraman wore a rather worse for wear brown cardigan over a turtleneck sweater, Norah was completely comfortable in her cotton shirtwaist and long wool skirt.
    “It won’t do any harm. And I think wherever he is, poor Mr. Sandringham needs all the help he can get.”
    She smoothed the dark fabric of her skirt across her knee. After a moment she added, “Thank you, by the way, Mr. Mindelbaum, for... for the moral support, I suppose.” She raised her eyes to his with a fleeting half smile. They’d talked at Enyart’s until almost one, the kind of lazy, gliding talk that she hadn’t engaged in for years, not since those nights she’d lain pillowed on Jim’s shoulder in a London boardinghouse speaking of everything and anything that came to mind. She barely recalled the content of it now: music and technique for developing photographs, Lawrence Pendergast’s worthless friends, and the things one saw on Basin Street in New Orleans late at night. “It really is like being in Oz, you know.”
    He grinned. “Then if we’re in Oz, you don’t need to go on calling me Mr. Mindelbaum,” he said. “Alec will do. And I’m pleased to come to your rescue. But the fact that Charlie was concerned that Chris might be bullying