Dying Embers by Robert E. Bailey Read Free Book Online Page A

firm and high against the effects of gravity. She wore enough make-up to be the wife of a televangelist. Clad in a white silk blouse with black pearl buttons over a black leather A-line skirt, she had elegantly permed hair some shade of Lady Clairol auburn. Whatever the damage to her throat, the scars lay beneath a black scarf wrapped several turns around her neck.
    â€œAnd-you-have. In-jured. My-em-ploy-ee.” she said.
    Hard to guess her age, most of the clues being dyed, painted, or hidden. Late fifties, maybe—and that based solely on the slackness of the skin on the back of otherwise muscular hands.
    â€œYour employee got injured because he sicked a pack of dogs on us for announcing ourselves at the gate,” said Leonard.
    â€œI’m-cal-ling. The-po-lease.”
    â€œWe already did—on the gardener’s telephone,” I said. “Mr. Hemmings assaulted Mr. Jones just prior to getting injured.”
    â€œGet-out-of-my-house.”
    â€œLast I heard,” said Leonard, “it was also my sister’s house and I’m not leaving until
she
tells us to go.”
    â€œYou-are-tres-pass-ing.”
    â€œYour maid, Juanita, let us in and brought us here to wait for you,” I said.
    â€œOur-biz-ness. Is-con-clu-ded. Get-out.”
    â€œI’m afraid our business isn’t quite done, Ma’am,” I said. “Mr. Hemmings is handcuffed to the gate and my associate is waiting with him for the police to arrive. The police will take their statements, and then they’ll want to talk to us. I expect they will ask Mr. Jones to sign a complaint. I intend to have them speak to your maid. If Mr. Hemmings has any open warrants or unpaid child support you may both be guests of the county.”
    Shelly turned to Leonard; the muscles in her cheeks twitched as she prepared to speak. “Anne-does-not-live. In-this-house. She-has-a-suite. And-stu-dee-oh. In-the-boat house.”
    â€œYou don’t mind if we go down there?” I asked.
    â€œShe-gets-angry. If-you-int-er-rupt. Her-work.”
    â€œSo have Juanita give her a call,” I said. “Maybe Anne’s watching a talk show today.”
    â€œThere-is-no-phone.”
    â€œGiven Mr. Jones’s concerns, I’m sure that the police will ask you to take them down there. If you refuse, they might come back with a warrant.”
    Shelly constructed a malevolent smile. “Go-to-the-God-damn-boat house. Go-to-hell. If-you-come-back. My-broth-er. Will-deal-with-you.”
    Out of the corner of my eye
The Dutchman
caught my attention again. The edge of the ship, where it emerged from the fog, described the inside line of a three-quarter profile of a bearded man wearing a nautical cap. The bricks seemed to be sculpted into subtle suggestions of planks and waves. The facial features appeared as a shadow cast by the ship—the images opaquely laid one upon the other. I walked up to examine the piece more closely and the image disappeared. The bricks were neither sculpted nor painted. I shook my head and we left.
    We went out the veranda doors and across a marble patio to the edge of the bluff, where we found a weathered wooden stairwell. Halfway down, a deck provided a resting place and a view of the lake over the roof of the stone boat house, which had been built on a cement pier out into the lake. The boat house had a dock and was as big as a four-bedroom home. A foot pedal boat, a catamaran day sailer, and a fifty-foot Donzi with a canvas cockpit rested against fenders, tied up at the dock.
    I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked loud and hard until I got an answer.
    â€œGet the fuck out of here!” said a woman’s voice from inside the boat house. “Leave me the hell alone.”
    â€œThere’s someone here to see you,” I said. “This’ll just take a minute.”
    â€œWhat language would you like to do this in, asshole? You don’t understand English? Get