stood as still as a cat, watching us come up the walk.
“Zinnie,” Mildred said under her breath. She raised her voice: “Zinnie? Is everything all right?”
“Oh fine. Just lovely. I’m still waiting for Jerry to come home. You didn’t see him in town, did you?”
“I never see Jerry. You know that.”
Mildred halted at the foot of the steps. There was a barrier of hostility, like a charged fence, between the two women. Zinnie, who was at least ten years older, held her body in a compact defensive posture against the pressure of Mildred’s eyes. Then she dropped her arms in a rather dramatic gesture which may have been meant for me.
“I hardly ever see him myself.”
She laughed nervously. Her laugh was harsh and unpleasant, like her voice. It was easy for me to overlook theunpleasantness. She was a beautiful woman, and her green eyes were interested in me. The waist above her snug hips was the kind you can span with your two hands, and would probably like to.
“Who’s your friend?” she purred.
Mildred introduced me.
“A private detective yet,” Zinnie said. “The place is crawling with policemen already. But come on in. That sun is misery.”
She held the door for us. Her other hand went to her face where the sun had parched the skin, then to her sleek hair. Her right breast rose elastically under the white silk shirt. A nice machine, I thought: pseudo-Hollywood, probably empty, certainly expensive, and not new; but a nice machine. She caught my look and didn’t seem to mind. She switch-hipped along the hallway, to a large, cool living-room.
“I’ve been waiting for an excuse to have a drink. Mildred, you’ll have ginger ale, I know. How’s your mother, by the way?”
“Mother is fine. Thank you.” Mildred’s formality broke down suddenly. “Zinnie? Where is Carl now?”
Zinnie lifted her shoulders. “I wish I knew. He hasn’t been heard from since Sam Yogan saw him. Ostervelt has several deputies out looking for him. The trouble is, Carl knows the ranch better than any of them.”
“You said they promised not to shoot.”
“Don’t worry about that. They’ll take him without any fireworks. That’s where you come in, if and when he shows up.”
“Yes.” Mildred stood like a stranger in the middle of the floor. “Is there anything I can do now?”
“Not a thing. Relax. I need a drink if you don’t. What about you, Mr. Archer?”
“Gibson, if it’s available.”
“That’s handy, I’m a Gibson girl myself.” She smiled brilliantly, too brilliantly for the circumstances. Zinnie seemed to be a trier, though, whatever else she was.
Her living-room bore the earmarks of a trier with a restless urge to be up to the minute in everything. Its bright new furniture was sectional, scattered around in cubes and oblongs and arcs. It sorted oddly with the dark oak floor and the heavily beamed ceiling. The adobe walls were hung with modern reproductions in limed oak frames. A row of book-club books occupied the mantel above the ancient stone fireplace. A free-form marble coffee-table held
Harper’s Bazaar
and
Vogue
and a beautiful old silver handbell. It was a room in which an uneasy present struggled to overcome the persistent past.
Zinnie picked up the bell and shook it. Mildred jumped at the sound. She was sitting very tense on the edge of a sectional sofa. I sat down beside her, but she paid no attention to my presence. She turned to look out the window, toward the groves.
A tiny girl came into the room, pausing near the door at the sight of strangers. With light blond hair and delicate porcelain features, she was obviously Zinnie’s daughter. The child was fussily dressed in a pale blue frock with a sash, and a matching blue ribbon in her hair. Her hand crept toward her mouth. The tiny fingernails were painted red.
“I was ringing for Juan, dear,” Zinnie said.
“I want to ring for him, Mummy. Let me ring for Juan.”
Though the child wasn’t much more than three,
“Zinnie,” Mildred said under her breath. She raised her voice: “Zinnie? Is everything all right?”
“Oh fine. Just lovely. I’m still waiting for Jerry to come home. You didn’t see him in town, did you?”
“I never see Jerry. You know that.”
Mildred halted at the foot of the steps. There was a barrier of hostility, like a charged fence, between the two women. Zinnie, who was at least ten years older, held her body in a compact defensive posture against the pressure of Mildred’s eyes. Then she dropped her arms in a rather dramatic gesture which may have been meant for me.
“I hardly ever see him myself.”
She laughed nervously. Her laugh was harsh and unpleasant, like her voice. It was easy for me to overlook theunpleasantness. She was a beautiful woman, and her green eyes were interested in me. The waist above her snug hips was the kind you can span with your two hands, and would probably like to.
“Who’s your friend?” she purred.
Mildred introduced me.
“A private detective yet,” Zinnie said. “The place is crawling with policemen already. But come on in. That sun is misery.”
She held the door for us. Her other hand went to her face where the sun had parched the skin, then to her sleek hair. Her right breast rose elastically under the white silk shirt. A nice machine, I thought: pseudo-Hollywood, probably empty, certainly expensive, and not new; but a nice machine. She caught my look and didn’t seem to mind. She switch-hipped along the hallway, to a large, cool living-room.
“I’ve been waiting for an excuse to have a drink. Mildred, you’ll have ginger ale, I know. How’s your mother, by the way?”
“Mother is fine. Thank you.” Mildred’s formality broke down suddenly. “Zinnie? Where is Carl now?”
Zinnie lifted her shoulders. “I wish I knew. He hasn’t been heard from since Sam Yogan saw him. Ostervelt has several deputies out looking for him. The trouble is, Carl knows the ranch better than any of them.”
“You said they promised not to shoot.”
“Don’t worry about that. They’ll take him without any fireworks. That’s where you come in, if and when he shows up.”
“Yes.” Mildred stood like a stranger in the middle of the floor. “Is there anything I can do now?”
“Not a thing. Relax. I need a drink if you don’t. What about you, Mr. Archer?”
“Gibson, if it’s available.”
“That’s handy, I’m a Gibson girl myself.” She smiled brilliantly, too brilliantly for the circumstances. Zinnie seemed to be a trier, though, whatever else she was.
Her living-room bore the earmarks of a trier with a restless urge to be up to the minute in everything. Its bright new furniture was sectional, scattered around in cubes and oblongs and arcs. It sorted oddly with the dark oak floor and the heavily beamed ceiling. The adobe walls were hung with modern reproductions in limed oak frames. A row of book-club books occupied the mantel above the ancient stone fireplace. A free-form marble coffee-table held
Harper’s Bazaar
and
Vogue
and a beautiful old silver handbell. It was a room in which an uneasy present struggled to overcome the persistent past.
Zinnie picked up the bell and shook it. Mildred jumped at the sound. She was sitting very tense on the edge of a sectional sofa. I sat down beside her, but she paid no attention to my presence. She turned to look out the window, toward the groves.
A tiny girl came into the room, pausing near the door at the sight of strangers. With light blond hair and delicate porcelain features, she was obviously Zinnie’s daughter. The child was fussily dressed in a pale blue frock with a sash, and a matching blue ribbon in her hair. Her hand crept toward her mouth. The tiny fingernails were painted red.
“I was ringing for Juan, dear,” Zinnie said.
“I want to ring for him, Mummy. Let me ring for Juan.”
Though the child wasn’t much more than three,
Similar Books
