Murder in the Wind by John D. MacDonald Read Free Book Online Page A

perfect diction by becoming so mush-mouthed as to be almost incomprehensible. He knew that it annoyed her, and he knew that she would not show it. He knew that the brain behind that cool thin face was of excellent quality. She expressed resentment through efficiency. The more she despised the two of them the harder she labored to make the house run smoothly, make the food perfection. It was a form of defiance, and she knew that they used and appreciated the products of her defiance. She was well-paid, well-treated, but he knew she felt trapped.
    She put the plate in front of him. Three eggs fried, turned over lightly, thick strips of country bacon, grits with butter and pepper. She stood beside him and filled the coffee cup.
    “Coming down hard rain, Ruthie.”
    “Yes, sir. It really is.”
    “Got them plenty of leaky roofs down there in Newtown.”
    She had backed away with the coffee pot. “A lot of them leak.”
    He grinned at her but could not find or meet her eyes. “Ought to tear down half them shacks down there.”
    “Yes sir,” she said and moved quickly to the kitchen, and the door swung shut behind her. It was a petty victory, too easily won this time. As he opened the paper he held in his mind the after image of her hips as she went through the door.
    He sensed that part of the tension between them was due to the knowledge that she attracted him physically. Not because she was pretty. The most she could be called was handsome. It was the contradiction which intrigued him, the hint of fire under ice. He had idly daydreamed about her many times while going to sleep—thought of the brown still cold face unmoving on a white pillow, the eyes veiled and unknowable, while, like a separate organism, her hips led their own quick, hard, rhythmic, lubricious life. It could be thought about, but never, never, never could there be the slightest move or gesture which could be interpreted by her as the first step in a campaign to achieve that startling goal. Because that would give her the ultimate unforgettable victory—would give her a stature that could never be weakened.
    Just two years ago, if Babe had not been so pleased and delighted with Ruth, Johnny would have fired her. Now he thought that even should Babe become discontented with Ruth, he would manage to keep the woman around. The game had become too interesting. They had both become too adept in their ways of muted conflict. It was like having a pet around that you couldn’t quite trust.
    Johnny Flagan scanned the headlines and turned to the real estate transfers. He saw that Ross Wedge had unloaded three lots in the Lagoon Park development for eighteen thousand. He knew that Ross had picked up six lots at just about the same time he had picked up ten. They’d both had to pay about two thousand apiece for them, and that was dirt cheap on account of Barkmann had needed the cash money to develop the rest of the area. He wondered why Ross Wedge had unloaded half his holding right now. Better off to wait a while. Lagoon Park was coming along fine. But then Ross was in with Whitey building those new stores on the boulevard and maybe he needed a little cash money. Better keep it in mind though, and see if Ross got rid of the other three soon. If he did so, it would be worth nosing around and finding out if anything was coming up that might hurt Lagoon Park and make this a good time to get out.
    Ruth came out of the kitchen and filled his coffee cup.
    “Thanks,” he said. “You take good care of Miz Babe now, Ruthie. I’ll be gone for a couple days. Up in Georgia. Say, I couldn’t find my Orlon suit. That light gray one.”
    “It ought to be back today, Mist’ Flagan.”
    He detected the faint slur in her speech, the slur that was the tip-off to a feeling of guilt. When Ruth forgot something, or did something wrong, the slur became evident. He knew that if he did a little digging he could find out that the suit hadn’t gone out when it should have. But it