‘‘That didn’t seem to be a consideration last night.’’
‘‘Don’t be nasty,’’ she said.
‘‘I’m crushed,’’ he said wryly. ‘‘And a little curious.’’
‘‘I can’t take the chance of getting involved,’’ she said. ‘‘I could easily get involved with you.’’
‘‘Guilty,’’ he said. He slipped his feet into his shoes.
‘‘Every once in a while,’’ she said, ‘‘I do this. The conditions have to be right. I have to be alone, in circumstances that are in no way suspicious. And there has to be a suitable man.’’
‘‘I’m pleased that you found me suitable,’’ he said, hoping that the sudden anger he felt didn’t show in his voice.
‘‘Very suitable,’’ she said. ‘‘You struck me as someone who wouldn’t make trouble for either of us when I explained the circumstances. Someone who wouldn’t, for example, try to telephone me.’’
‘‘I really would like to see you again.’’
‘‘Don’t ruin everything now,’’ she said, and there was steel in her voice.
‘‘OK,’’ he said. He looked around for his cummerbund, and couldn’t find it.
She read his mind. ‘‘You left it in the other room,’’ she said. ‘‘When you first got here.’’
He remembered. She had been so anxious to get at him that she had dropped to her knees the moment she had closed the door. The cummerbund had been in the way.
‘‘Oh,’’ he said. ‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘Good-bye, Dick Canidy,’’ she said.
He inclined his head toward her, sort of a bow, but said nothing. He went out of the bedroom, closing the door after him.
The driveway gate in the wall of the house on Q Street was closed, and the key for it was not on the key ring Cynthia Chenowith had given him. But there was a key to the walk gate, so he got out of the station wagon and entered the property that way.
He was almost through Whittaker’s private park and at the driveway gate when a motion caught his eye.
Chesley Haywood Whittaker, in a silk dressing gown, was walking quickly across the cobblestones between the garage and the kitchen.
Canidy ducked behind a tree so that he wouldn’t be seen.
Sonofabitch, Chesty is screwing Cynthia Chenowith. Why else could he have been in the garage . . . at five-thirty in the morning . . . where she had an apartment?
He thought that over a moment. The first thing that came to his mind was that Chesty Whittaker was a dirty old man, demanding sexual services in repayment for the bills he was paying. But he knew Chesty Whittaker better than that. Chesty wasn’t the one who’d started whatever was going on.
Was there a phrase to describe a Yankee version of a Southern magnolia blossom?
Canidy stayed behind the tree until he was sure Chesty was inside the house, and then he opened the driveway gate and drove the Ford station wagon in, purposefully making a lot of noise opening and closing the doors.
He went to his room, removed his clothes, and took a shower. When he came out, Chesty Whittaker was in the room.
‘‘I heard you come in,’’ he said. ‘‘I thought you might want some breakfast.’’
‘‘I’m sorry I woke you,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘Don’t worry about it. Apparently the hunting was good after you took Miss Magnolia Blossom home?’’
‘‘Can’t complain.’’
‘‘Are you hungry?’’