had hired the clods to get Alma’s diary from me? One of the more enterprising supermarket tabloids? A trashy television newsmagazine? It didn’t matter. Not really. What mattered was that whoever it was had good information. They knew I’d be picking up the diary at Frederick’s office, and they knew when. They had very good information. They had inside information.
CHAPTER SIX
M AVIS GLAZE LIKED TO patrol her realm twice daily on a hot-pink dirt bike, I guess to remind all of the birds and the bees just exactly who was in charge. She was zipping across the front pasture when I pulled the Nova through the gate. The sight of her perched regally atop her motorcycle, back stiff, nose high, smile frozen, gave a whole new meaning to the words bitch on wheels .
Roy, the talkative old gardener, waved her down when she got to the ash-lined drive. He pointed to the outer wall over by the souvenir stand, where he’d left a shovel and wheelbarrow. She started over there with him. When she saw me, she indicated she wanted me to follow them. I did. Who was I to let her down?
The two of them had their heads together by the wall. Roy was kneeling on the ground, one knobby hand scratching fretfully at some fresh soil there.
“Roy seems to feel some form of animal life is getting in under the wall at night,” Mavis informed me. Her biker outfit consisted of a trim white cotton jumpsuit and belted suede jacket, with a flowered scarf over her head. “A fox, or perhaps a coon.”
Roy gave me his blank stare, worked the chaw of tobacco in his cheek.
“Not a matter we can afford to take lightly,” Mavis added. “It’s after the peacocks, you see.”
“What will you do?” I asked.
“We prefer not to put down traps,” she replied. “One of them might wander into it. Roy will have to hunt it down and shoot it.”
He got to his feet and leaned over and murmured something to her, his lips barely moving.
She nodded. “Your dog,” she said to me. “Keep it on a leash after dark, for its own safety.”
“Thanks for the warning, Roy,” I said. In response he spat some tobacco juice at my feet. Maybe it was just his way of saying you’re welcome.
Mavis didn’t care for it one bit. She turned her hard blue pinpoints on him and breathed fire. “Roy, I have told you innumerable times that if you must partake of that disgusting habit to please have the courtesy not to expectorate in my presence! Since I obviously have not made myself understood, perhaps docking you one day’s pay will make my point clear. I will not be spat at! Do you understand!”
Roy bowed his head and nodded penitently.
“See that you do!” She turned her back on him and marched briskly toward her motorcycle. I followed. “There was a delivery for you about an hour ago,” she said to me over her shoulder. “I had him leave it outside your room.”
“Thank you.”
She stopped and looked me over. “You look terribly pale. You’re not ill, are you?”
“Nothing a short single malt and a half dozen tall ice packs can’t handle.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t mind me.”
She hesitated. “I’ve been thinking about the book. My book. I can’t think about anything else, really. I’m just so alive with ideas and sensations. I-I feel like an exposed nerve. Is it that way for you? When you write, I mean.”
“On my good days.”
“They’re coming so fast I can barely keep up. It’s thrilling. I can’t wait to tell you about them.”
“And I can’t wait to hear them, Mavis. In the meantime, write them down in a notebook as they occur to you.”
“That’s just what Mother did. She even kept a notepad by her bed at night. Father would tease her about it.” Briefly, her face softened at the memory. Then it abruptly hardened again. She climbed on her little pink motorcycle.
“Nice little machine,” I observed.
“It was a Christmas present from Richard.”
“I’d have thought a horse would be more your style — strong,
CHAPTER SIX
M AVIS GLAZE LIKED TO patrol her realm twice daily on a hot-pink dirt bike, I guess to remind all of the birds and the bees just exactly who was in charge. She was zipping across the front pasture when I pulled the Nova through the gate. The sight of her perched regally atop her motorcycle, back stiff, nose high, smile frozen, gave a whole new meaning to the words bitch on wheels .
Roy, the talkative old gardener, waved her down when she got to the ash-lined drive. He pointed to the outer wall over by the souvenir stand, where he’d left a shovel and wheelbarrow. She started over there with him. When she saw me, she indicated she wanted me to follow them. I did. Who was I to let her down?
The two of them had their heads together by the wall. Roy was kneeling on the ground, one knobby hand scratching fretfully at some fresh soil there.
“Roy seems to feel some form of animal life is getting in under the wall at night,” Mavis informed me. Her biker outfit consisted of a trim white cotton jumpsuit and belted suede jacket, with a flowered scarf over her head. “A fox, or perhaps a coon.”
Roy gave me his blank stare, worked the chaw of tobacco in his cheek.
“Not a matter we can afford to take lightly,” Mavis added. “It’s after the peacocks, you see.”
“What will you do?” I asked.
“We prefer not to put down traps,” she replied. “One of them might wander into it. Roy will have to hunt it down and shoot it.”
He got to his feet and leaned over and murmured something to her, his lips barely moving.
She nodded. “Your dog,” she said to me. “Keep it on a leash after dark, for its own safety.”
“Thanks for the warning, Roy,” I said. In response he spat some tobacco juice at my feet. Maybe it was just his way of saying you’re welcome.
Mavis didn’t care for it one bit. She turned her hard blue pinpoints on him and breathed fire. “Roy, I have told you innumerable times that if you must partake of that disgusting habit to please have the courtesy not to expectorate in my presence! Since I obviously have not made myself understood, perhaps docking you one day’s pay will make my point clear. I will not be spat at! Do you understand!”
Roy bowed his head and nodded penitently.
“See that you do!” She turned her back on him and marched briskly toward her motorcycle. I followed. “There was a delivery for you about an hour ago,” she said to me over her shoulder. “I had him leave it outside your room.”
“Thank you.”
She stopped and looked me over. “You look terribly pale. You’re not ill, are you?”
“Nothing a short single malt and a half dozen tall ice packs can’t handle.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t mind me.”
She hesitated. “I’ve been thinking about the book. My book. I can’t think about anything else, really. I’m just so alive with ideas and sensations. I-I feel like an exposed nerve. Is it that way for you? When you write, I mean.”
“On my good days.”
“They’re coming so fast I can barely keep up. It’s thrilling. I can’t wait to tell you about them.”
“And I can’t wait to hear them, Mavis. In the meantime, write them down in a notebook as they occur to you.”
“That’s just what Mother did. She even kept a notepad by her bed at night. Father would tease her about it.” Briefly, her face softened at the memory. Then it abruptly hardened again. She climbed on her little pink motorcycle.
“Nice little machine,” I observed.
“It was a Christmas present from Richard.”
“I’d have thought a horse would be more your style — strong,
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