having a horde of strangers descend upon his house.
“You can, eh? You can? That’s interesting. That’s extremely interesting,” she said in a tone which implied that it most definitely was not. “What did you say your name was again?”
Bernard repeated his name and found his hand crushed in a strong manlike grip.
“I like you,” she said with a wintry smile. “I like the cut of your gib, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m flattered,” said Bernard.
“Although I don’t suppose you youngsters use expressions like that anymore, do you? No, no. It’s only old folk like me who still talk that way.”
She leered up at him in a strangely provocative manner.
“You remind me of my husband,” she announced. “That’s why I’ve taken to you. That’s why it is. My poor husband Vinnie. He’s been dead, oh, more than ten years now. Would you like to know how he died?”
Bernard replied without hesitation that he would love to know.
“His head was crushed underneath a tractor,” she said, with what seemed to be an undue amount of triumph. She let out a cackle. “Crushed underneath a tractor.”
Bernard asked how such a bizarre accident might have taken place, and Etta expounded at length. “We were traveling, you know, in farm country in the south of France, and we were being shown around a working farm on a kind of tour, and Vinnie, who
always
had to stick his nose into everything, got down on his hands and knees while we were all away in the house and …”
The afternoon passed quickly. After a few hours the reception began to empty out. Bernard, his head spinning with details of Vinnie’s unfortunate accident, plus details of Etta and Vinnie’s travels all over the world in the happy early years of their marriage, was released from Etta’s viselike grip with a stern admonition to come back sometime and see her soon.
“I like you, young man, and that’s saying a lot,” she said with icy satisfaction. “That’s saying a lot.”
Bernard liked her too, although he reflected that he could begin to understand why the luckless Vinnie, after thirty-five years of marriage, had gone and stuck his head under a tractor. Great-aunt Etta was a good talker. Anyone married to her would not lead a peaceful life.
On the way home in the car, Maya looked at him with a smile. “Quite the debonair man-about-town, aren’t you, Bernard? Picking up eighty-year-old women at their relatives’ funerals?”
“Wait, Maya. Wait till you hear this. I have an extremely touching story to tell you.”
Dora and Phil Kelly, with Pumpkin in tow, arrived home after the funeral reception to find Detective Janovy waiting patiently on their front step. Dora let out an earsplitting shriek.
“It’s the police, Phil—run for your life! Quick, take thebaby and make a break for it! You reach the trees and I’ll delay him here!”
Detective Janovy remarked that he didn’t think that was very funny.
“It’s not, doll-face, you’re right,” Dora said, unlocking the door and motioning him inside. “What can we do for you today?”
Janovy said he’d like to have a few words with Mr. Kelly. Dora let out another shriek. “All right, doll-face, but don’t work him over too hard, okay? Phil is a sucker for torture, he won’t last a minute, will you, Phil? And Phil, you remember that story I told you to tell him, okay?—about where I was the night Mrs. Whitaker was killed?”
Janovy decided that he really did
not
like Dora Kelly.
“Pumpkin and I will be in the next room,” she said, waving them into the living room. “You know what I’m saying, Phil. We’ll be listening in on those wiretaps I just had installed.”
Janovy sat down and took a good look at Dora Kelly’s husband. Phil Kelly was a big muscle-bound guy with short blond hair and handsome clean-cut looks. He was wearing a suit and tie, but now he took off his jacket with a sigh of relief. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and said politely,
“You can, eh? You can? That’s interesting. That’s extremely interesting,” she said in a tone which implied that it most definitely was not. “What did you say your name was again?”
Bernard repeated his name and found his hand crushed in a strong manlike grip.
“I like you,” she said with a wintry smile. “I like the cut of your gib, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m flattered,” said Bernard.
“Although I don’t suppose you youngsters use expressions like that anymore, do you? No, no. It’s only old folk like me who still talk that way.”
She leered up at him in a strangely provocative manner.
“You remind me of my husband,” she announced. “That’s why I’ve taken to you. That’s why it is. My poor husband Vinnie. He’s been dead, oh, more than ten years now. Would you like to know how he died?”
Bernard replied without hesitation that he would love to know.
“His head was crushed underneath a tractor,” she said, with what seemed to be an undue amount of triumph. She let out a cackle. “Crushed underneath a tractor.”
Bernard asked how such a bizarre accident might have taken place, and Etta expounded at length. “We were traveling, you know, in farm country in the south of France, and we were being shown around a working farm on a kind of tour, and Vinnie, who
always
had to stick his nose into everything, got down on his hands and knees while we were all away in the house and …”
The afternoon passed quickly. After a few hours the reception began to empty out. Bernard, his head spinning with details of Vinnie’s unfortunate accident, plus details of Etta and Vinnie’s travels all over the world in the happy early years of their marriage, was released from Etta’s viselike grip with a stern admonition to come back sometime and see her soon.
“I like you, young man, and that’s saying a lot,” she said with icy satisfaction. “That’s saying a lot.”
Bernard liked her too, although he reflected that he could begin to understand why the luckless Vinnie, after thirty-five years of marriage, had gone and stuck his head under a tractor. Great-aunt Etta was a good talker. Anyone married to her would not lead a peaceful life.
On the way home in the car, Maya looked at him with a smile. “Quite the debonair man-about-town, aren’t you, Bernard? Picking up eighty-year-old women at their relatives’ funerals?”
“Wait, Maya. Wait till you hear this. I have an extremely touching story to tell you.”
Dora and Phil Kelly, with Pumpkin in tow, arrived home after the funeral reception to find Detective Janovy waiting patiently on their front step. Dora let out an earsplitting shriek.
“It’s the police, Phil—run for your life! Quick, take thebaby and make a break for it! You reach the trees and I’ll delay him here!”
Detective Janovy remarked that he didn’t think that was very funny.
“It’s not, doll-face, you’re right,” Dora said, unlocking the door and motioning him inside. “What can we do for you today?”
Janovy said he’d like to have a few words with Mr. Kelly. Dora let out another shriek. “All right, doll-face, but don’t work him over too hard, okay? Phil is a sucker for torture, he won’t last a minute, will you, Phil? And Phil, you remember that story I told you to tell him, okay?—about where I was the night Mrs. Whitaker was killed?”
Janovy decided that he really did
not
like Dora Kelly.
“Pumpkin and I will be in the next room,” she said, waving them into the living room. “You know what I’m saying, Phil. We’ll be listening in on those wiretaps I just had installed.”
Janovy sat down and took a good look at Dora Kelly’s husband. Phil Kelly was a big muscle-bound guy with short blond hair and handsome clean-cut looks. He was wearing a suit and tie, but now he took off his jacket with a sigh of relief. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and said politely,
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