The Woman Who Fell From Grace by David Handler Read Free Book Online

dessert. I was not disappointed.
    “Polk LaFoon the Fourth,” Fern explained. “He’s Augusta County sheriff like Polk Three and Polk Two before him. Handsome as Mistuh Bob Stack in his uniform. And he’s smart, too. Got his law degree from Duke. Gonna be our attorney general someday. Maybe even governor” — she winked at me — “if he marries right.”
    “I swear, Fern,” declared Mercy. “You are getting absolutely senile, the things come out of your mouth.” She turned to me, frowning. “You’re not the same Stewart Hoag who wrote Our Family Enterprise , are you?”
    “I am.”
    She looked a bit awestruck now, poor child. “I-I read you in modern lit.”
    “You don’t say. Large class?”
    “I guess there were about eighteen of us. Why?”
    “Just calculating my royalties.”
    “You’re a real distinguished American author,” she pointed out.
    “Careful. My head swells easily.”
    “To tell you the truth,” she confessed, “I didn’t realize you were still alive.”
    “That’s more like it, though you could bring me back down a little easier in the future.”
    She giggled. Fern busied herself at the sink, noisily.
    “So you do this sort of work, too?” Mercy asked, fascinated.
    “Yes. I’m kind of the Bo Jackson of publishing.”
    “But isn’t this, well, beneath you?”
    “Nothing is beneath me,” I replied, “with the possible exception of screenwriting.”
    “I guess I don’t understand why you bother.”
    “Just finicky, really. I won’t eat out of garbage cans.”
    “Oh.” Chastened, she poured herself coffee. “You must think I’m awfully sheltered and insensitive and stupid.”
    I gave her a frisky once-over. “That’s not what I’m thinking at all.”
    She blushed and lunged for her books. “Well, I’ve got a paper due tomorrow,” she said, starting for the stairs with her coffee. “Know anything about Spenser’s Faerie Queen ?”
    “Yes. Understanding it won’t come in handy later in life.”
    “That’s not what this little girl needs to hear,” Fern cautioned.
    Mercy sighed. “I’m not a little girl, Fern. I’m twenty-one years old.”
    “Don’t remind me,” said Fern. “I was a middle-aged woman when you was born. I hate to think what that makes me now.
    “Enjoy your Spenser,” I said.
    She smiled and said it was nice meeting me. Then she went off to her room.
    “Seems like a nice girl,” I observed.
    “Keep your hands off or Mavis’ll cut ’em off,” Fern warned. “With a hatchet.”
    “Not to worry, Fern. I’m not looking these days.”
    “Look all you want. Just don’t touch.”
    I brought my dessert plate to her at the sink. “Thanks for the best meal I’ve had in a long time.”
    “You don’t believe me about Sterling Sloan, do you?” she demanded, peering up at me. “You think I’m some crazy old lady.”
    “That’s not the case at all, Fern,” I replied tactfully. “I’m flattered that you confided in me. I’m just not your man. I came through the gate in a Chevy Nova, not on the back of a white horse. You need someone with a square jaw and fists of stone and a resting pulse rate of fifty-six. You need a hero.”
    “I reckon so,” she said, crestfallen. “I just don’t know who … I mean, you were my best hope.”
    I sighed inwardly. One hundred percent marshmallow, through and through. “I’ll sleep on it. How’s that?”
    She brightened considerably. “That’s more like it!” Thwack . “Only don’t sleep too late. You got an audience with Mavis at nine o’clock sharp in the old library. She has fits if people are even a minute late.”
    “I thought the old house was only used for formal occasions.”
    “Believe me, honey, meeting Mavis Glaze is one.”
    Her phone rang several times before she finally picked it up. My heart began to pound at once when she did. It always does when I hear that feathery, dizzy-sounding, teenaged-girl’s voice that belongs to her and no one else.
    “Did I wake