The Polka Dot Nude by Joan Smith Read Free Book Online

and he accompanied me to the door.
    I went back to my cottage and watched TV. Rosalie’s death didn’t bother me in a deeply emotional way. I hadn’t known her well enough or long enough for that. To me, the major concern was how it would affect my book. I turned the volume down and left the picture on, glancing at the screen once in a while, while I looked over my research.
    At ten, Brad came back, bringing the borrowed diary with him. “It’s too bad she didn’t live another six months, and then this death would have been a big boost for my book,” I said.
    “That’s a pretty crude way to look at it,” he said, rather sharply.
    “Take it easy! I was just thinking out loud. So it was selfish, but if she was going to die anyway, it would have been good for me if she’d died when the book was ready for release. Do you want some coffee?” I asked, to smooth his ruffled feathers.
    “No, thanks,” He just sat staring at the screen, as though his mind were miles away, till the item came on. Rosalie had been big enough in her day that her death led off the news. They had accumulated a short tape on her life, showing cuts from a few of her hit movies, and some personal footage as well. Most of it had been seen before; all of it was at least twenty-five years old.
    “Well, that’s the end of Rosalie Hart,” Brad said sadly. “I wish I’d known her.”
    “You sound as though you’re half in love with her.”
    “Maybe—half. At my age, death’s upsetting.”
    “Your age!” I laughed. “How old are you anyway? All of thirty-four or -five, I imagine.”
    He gave a self-conscious look that made me raise his probable age a few years. “Thereabouts. I won’t sleep much tonight. Is it all right if I take another of her diaries?”
    “Help yourself. I wish I had something really boring to put me to sleep.”
    Then I remembered The Art of Eliot, and knew my problem was solved. Brad took a while, sorting through the volumes.
    “Are you looking for anything in particular?”
    “What you were talking about—the period when she was in Europe, and you think she had a baby.”
    “I told you, that space of time is missing, Brad. Try this one,” I said, and offered him one of the racier books.
    “You mentioned one where she complained of gaining weight.” He kept rooting till he found the one he wanted.
    He left, with no romantic interlude that night. He seemed awfully preoccupied, and I couldn’t believe it was the thought of his own death that caused it. It was Rosalie’s. Funny how attached people became to movie stars. You’d almost think he had known her personally. She wasn’t a coeval of his. I remembered how upset people had been when Elvis Presley died, and John Lennon was killed. But that was different—it was people the same age as the stars who had felt that deeply about the deaths. Rosalie was old enough to be Brad’s grandmother. Of course what he was mourning wasn’t the wrinkled little woman I knew, but the winsome face seen on the screen. The face smiling at me from the gilt frame.
    I went to bed, and was soon lulled to sleep by The Art of Eliot, and the gentle lap of water against the rocky shore.
     

CHAPTER 4
     
    As soon as Bell installed my phone the next morning, I called Eileen Haddon. My editor had already heard about Rosalie’s death.
    “Bad news for us, huh?” I asked.
    “That’s debatable. If we could get your book out soon, it would help sales. What’s your best date on the manuscript?”
    “My deadline’s October. I’ll be ready by then, not much sooner.”
    A nervous laugh trickled down the wire. “I hope you can do better than that. Is August out of the question? August the first, I mean?”
    “August! Eileen, look at your calendar. It’s late June already.”
    “Is it absolutely out of the question?” she persisted.
    “Absolutely.”
    “Well, do it as quickly as you can. The end of August is already later than we want. There’s a TV special planned, and some