Invasion of Privacy by Jeremiah Healy Read Free Book Online

the brochure in my palm, making a weighing motion with my hand. “Kind of skimpy, compared to the competition.”
    Hendrix rose, flexing his shoulders back. “Each management company has its own personality, Mr. Cuddy.” The mellow tone still. “I think you’ve gotten a pretty good sense of ours. Let your clients decide, huh?”
    As I went out through the reception area, Mrs. Jelks nodded pleasantly to me over the romance novel.

4

    B ack in the Prelude, I drove east, almost to the ocean. I couldn’t see why Boyce Hendrix hadn’t really pitched for “my” complex’s business. Also, a little enthusiasm on his part would have been nice toward greasing the skids for my cover story at Plymouth Willows itself.
    Nice, but not essential, I hoped.
    Turning south, I followed the narrow, twisting roads that used to be the only routes between Boston and the summer communities. I passed a forlorn shopping mall and at least a dozen condominium developments, mostly weathered shingle, trying hard for the quaint island look of Nantucket but coming up just a bit cramped and sad. After about twenty minutes, I reached the outskirts of Plymouth Mills.
    At first glance, the town center seemed picturesque, its buildings extending five or six blocks in each direction from a four-way intersection. The architectural style alternated between clapboard and red brick, the clapboard mostly white with black or green shutters, the brick sand-blasted at some point after the dingy mills it covered had closed down. The retail stores were more likely to be called “shoppes” than the places in the strip mall back in Marshfield , with some specializing entirely in woven baskets or stuffed animals or wine and cheese. Look a little closer, though, and you could see the peeling paint and missing bricks, the cracked sidewalks and unfixed potholes. Since the demise of the “Massachusetts Miracle,” most of the state had gone from recession to depression, despite the optimism in the newspapers, and Plymouth Mills, like the towns to the north, seemed not to have been spared. Even the Porsche dealership struck me as dreary.
    The police station came up just after the dealership, which I’m sure made the Porsche people sleep better at night. The department occupied one of the brick buildings, and ordinarily I’d have stopped in, letting the desk officers know I’d be working the town they were paid to serve and protect. However, I didn’t want to risk my license by extending the cover story about nonexistent condo clients to the local uniforms.
    Just before the intersection, the photocopy shop appeared on the right, but from the low lighting inside, it wasn’t open. I’d intended to ask about Dees first at Plymouth Willows anyway, but why wouldn’t an independent businessman have his place up and running by noontime?
    Beyond the crossroads was The Tides, where Olga Evor-ova told me she’d first met Dees . Pretty hungry by now, I had to have lunch somewhere, and I found a parking space next to it.
    The interior of The Tides was pretty generic: an oblong pub bar in the back, burled walnut veneer on both the walls and the booths against them. Benches for the booths stood high, with brass coat hooks screwed into the wood and cream-colored Formica covering the tables. Paint-by-numbers beach prints were framed and almost centered under brass wall sconces. The midday-meal crowd seemed mostly retirees lounging in the booths and people who drank their lunches lounging at the bar, which wasn’t tended just now.
    I took a stool across from a booth that held the only teenagers in the place, a pair of girls wearing the kinds of outfits, hairdos, and jewelry you’d find on the cover of a science fiction magazine. The Tides was quiet enough that I could hear their conversation, even though they weren’t trying to project.
    One had purple hair, purple rouge, and purple lipstick, her yellow-and-green-striped sweatshirt torn at the shoulder, the matching athletic