Habit of Fear by Dorothy Salisbury Davis Read Free Book Online Page A

and volunteered the opinion that it was unwise for Garvy to do a play. “Unless it’s a play about Orchard Terrace. Wouldn’t that be fun?” As Julie had anticipated, it wasn’t long after Detective Russo’s visit until Mrs. Ryan arrived with a round loaf of soda bread. She wore her summer straw hat, her gray hair straggling out in wisps beneath it. Her face was getting puffy and her pale blue eyes more watery and bloodshot. She’d been either drinking or crying, Julie thought. Suddenly she realized that the old lady had come without her constant companion, an aged dachshund.
    “Where’s Fritzie?”
    Mrs. Ryan straightened herself up and pulled in her chin. “I had to put him to sleep a week ago Friday.”
    The tears flooded Julie’s eyes. There was no holding them back.
    “There, dear, I’ve cried myself dry. It’s why I didn’t come any sooner. But he’s better off. He couldn’t do this and that and he couldn’t contain himself any longer.”
    “Sorry,” Julie said and wiped away the tears.
    “Don’t be. I know it’s me you’re crying for.”
    “Or me maybe.” She went to the dresser to get a tissue, and there stood a tin box in which she kept dog biscuits for Fritzie.
    “What a terrible thing happened to you,” Mrs. Ryan said while Julie’s back was turned.
    Julie blew her nose. “Shouldn’t we go to the ASPCA and get you another dog?”
    “I think not. Fritzie was fourteen years old, and fourteen years from now I’ll be way over eighty. No, I just don’t think so.” She leaned back in the chair and took another look around the room. She had foreborne until then commenting on the new pieces of furniture and the bedding. “Something’s different,” she said, knowing well that the place was completely rearranged from when she had last been there.
    “I’ll be living here for a while,” Julie said. “Jeff and I are separating.”
    “Isn’t that interesting?” The eagerness quickened in her eyes to be carrying the news to the few friends they had in common. Mary Ryan had lived over forty years in the neighborhood. She’d worked as an usher at the Martin Beck Theater. Theater was her life, and she told over and over, like the beads of her rosary, the names of actors and producers she had known. “Still, I don’t suppose you’re celebrating,” she added.
    “No.”
    Mrs. Ryan waited, hoping for a confidence. “He was a very successful man, wasn’t he?” she tried then.
    “He still is. Mrs. Ryan, do you remember telling me about Father Doyle and his ability to trace lost relatives?” She had once told the older woman how little she knew of her own father. The priest she mentioned was an assistant at Saint Malachy’s.
    “Julie, he’s a marvel. I could name you a half dozen broken families he’s put together again. After finding the pieces, you might say.”
    “Would he know about annulments and where the records are kept?”
    “Well, if he doesn’t, you may be sure he knows where to find out. I’m so glad you’re doing it.” Mrs. Ryan was always a leap ahead. “It’s important to know all we can about ourselves. You might turn out to be an heiress to a fortune and never have known it.”
    S HE WORKED HARD on the apartment after Mrs. Ryan left, her anxiety syndrome. Then she wrote up the interview with Richard Garvy. It would be extraordinary, she thought, if he had known her father. Somebody had known him. Somebody had witnessed the marriage and knew the reason for the annulment. “Oh, God help me!” she said aloud—half prayer, half despair. But afterward she felt a great calmness. She chose between Father Doyle, who was easy to reach, and Morgan Reynolds, who might not be. She looked up the phone number and called the executive offices of Books Unlimited. She gave her maiden name, Julie Anne Richards.

NINE
    I T ALL SEEMED SO ridiculously simple. One phone call and she was to have lunch the next day with Morgan Reynolds, who, unless he had become manager of the