do so off-duty and
unpartnered made it even more offensive. It was also too late for that. Her
curiosity was too aroused to turn back. For a detective such an attitude was
like raw meat thrown to a starving lion.
SHE ROLLED the car through a long curving exit from the
main highway and found herself on the outskirts of Fredericksburg, a fair-sized
town, yet light-years away from the Washington metropolis. Following the
precise directions the woman had given her, she traversed the main arteries of
the town and drove through what passed for suburbs, noting large houses
surrounded by big lawns.
She had no preconceived notions of the kind of place in
which Mrs. Taylor lived. No hint was given, except that the neighborhood where
Betty's remains had been found had been very upscale, which suggested that she
might have been used to such an environment. But that theory quickly dissolved.
The neighborhood in which Fiona finally arrived was a sleepy southern ghetto,
neat, look-alike small houses, each fronted by a miniscule patch of lawn.
No way of telling race, Dr. Benton had told her, as she
pressed the old-fashioned door bell and listened to the now unfamiliar ring. A
light-skinned Negress came to the door, tall, dignified and stately. Her voice
was instantly recognizable.
"Miz FitzGeral," Mrs. Taylor said, leading her
through a small hallway to a neat, well-cared-for living room. The houses of
black people were familiar to Fiona, and, aside from the tension of her
mission, she did not feel uncomfortable or out of place.
"Ah've made some coffee," Mrs. Taylor said. She
was gone a moment, returning with two cups, a pot of coffee and a plate of
chocolate-chip cookies. Because she moved with such self-absorbed intensity,
Fiona was able to observe her without fear of being considered impolite. The
woman's complexion was golden and seemed to glow from within. Not a wrinkle
disturbed the symmetry. Chronologically she would be nearing 50, but there was
no way of telling from her features. Her well-proportioned figure had
thickened, but it was clear that in her youth she had been a knockout.
Mrs. Taylor poured the coffee with a sense of solemnity in
the ritual and handed it to Fiona with a thin smile. Her eyes, Fiona noted now,
were a startling bluish grey like her own, her greying hair naturally wavy.
Only a somewhat larger flair to the nostril testified to the Negroid genetic
share. It was then that Fiona had realized why she had made the mistake of
picturing Mrs. Taylor differently. Her voice and inflection revealed only the
slightest clue to her blackness. Outside of this environment she might have
easily passed for white, but it was quite clear which side she had chosen, and
she was obviously proud of her choice.
As she sipped the coffee, Fiona's gaze swept the room,
arrested finally by the obvious. Betty Taylor's picture in full color.
Undoubtedly a clone of her mother in her youth, a grey-eyed, golden beauty. She
noted that the flare in the nostrils was less pronounced. Except for its
environment, the woman in the photo might have had a great deal of trouble
passing for black.
"That's Betta," Mrs. Taylor said. From where she
sat she could reach the picture. She took the frame, studied the picture for a
moment, then held it up for Fiona to get a closer look, although she would not
release it from her own hands.
"She certainly was a beauty," Fiona said, once
again regretting the tense. But a picture of the old bones had flashed in her
mind. It was all she could do to keep her tears from coming.
"A dozen yeahs now," Mrs. Taylor said. "Mah
husban's gone now. Owah son is up in New Yoke. A lawyah." She looked at
the picture. "Betta was always a rebel. We had no choice but to let huh go
to Washinton. To huh that was the big city." Her gaze drifted toward the
window. "Ah knew she was too pretty to go so young. Much too pretty.
Sometimes that is a cross to bear, Miz FitzGeral." Fiona's eyes, tearing
now, drifted toward the window which
unpartnered made it even more offensive. It was also too late for that. Her
curiosity was too aroused to turn back. For a detective such an attitude was
like raw meat thrown to a starving lion.
SHE ROLLED the car through a long curving exit from the
main highway and found herself on the outskirts of Fredericksburg, a fair-sized
town, yet light-years away from the Washington metropolis. Following the
precise directions the woman had given her, she traversed the main arteries of
the town and drove through what passed for suburbs, noting large houses
surrounded by big lawns.
She had no preconceived notions of the kind of place in
which Mrs. Taylor lived. No hint was given, except that the neighborhood where
Betty's remains had been found had been very upscale, which suggested that she
might have been used to such an environment. But that theory quickly dissolved.
The neighborhood in which Fiona finally arrived was a sleepy southern ghetto,
neat, look-alike small houses, each fronted by a miniscule patch of lawn.
No way of telling race, Dr. Benton had told her, as she
pressed the old-fashioned door bell and listened to the now unfamiliar ring. A
light-skinned Negress came to the door, tall, dignified and stately. Her voice
was instantly recognizable.
"Miz FitzGeral," Mrs. Taylor said, leading her
through a small hallway to a neat, well-cared-for living room. The houses of
black people were familiar to Fiona, and, aside from the tension of her
mission, she did not feel uncomfortable or out of place.
"Ah've made some coffee," Mrs. Taylor said. She
was gone a moment, returning with two cups, a pot of coffee and a plate of
chocolate-chip cookies. Because she moved with such self-absorbed intensity,
Fiona was able to observe her without fear of being considered impolite. The
woman's complexion was golden and seemed to glow from within. Not a wrinkle
disturbed the symmetry. Chronologically she would be nearing 50, but there was
no way of telling from her features. Her well-proportioned figure had
thickened, but it was clear that in her youth she had been a knockout.
Mrs. Taylor poured the coffee with a sense of solemnity in
the ritual and handed it to Fiona with a thin smile. Her eyes, Fiona noted now,
were a startling bluish grey like her own, her greying hair naturally wavy.
Only a somewhat larger flair to the nostril testified to the Negroid genetic
share. It was then that Fiona had realized why she had made the mistake of
picturing Mrs. Taylor differently. Her voice and inflection revealed only the
slightest clue to her blackness. Outside of this environment she might have
easily passed for white, but it was quite clear which side she had chosen, and
she was obviously proud of her choice.
As she sipped the coffee, Fiona's gaze swept the room,
arrested finally by the obvious. Betty Taylor's picture in full color.
Undoubtedly a clone of her mother in her youth, a grey-eyed, golden beauty. She
noted that the flare in the nostrils was less pronounced. Except for its
environment, the woman in the photo might have had a great deal of trouble
passing for black.
"That's Betta," Mrs. Taylor said. From where she
sat she could reach the picture. She took the frame, studied the picture for a
moment, then held it up for Fiona to get a closer look, although she would not
release it from her own hands.
"She certainly was a beauty," Fiona said, once
again regretting the tense. But a picture of the old bones had flashed in her
mind. It was all she could do to keep her tears from coming.
"A dozen yeahs now," Mrs. Taylor said. "Mah
husban's gone now. Owah son is up in New Yoke. A lawyah." She looked at
the picture. "Betta was always a rebel. We had no choice but to let huh go
to Washinton. To huh that was the big city." Her gaze drifted toward the
window. "Ah knew she was too pretty to go so young. Much too pretty.
Sometimes that is a cross to bear, Miz FitzGeral." Fiona's eyes, tearing
now, drifted toward the window which
Similar Books
