Elaine Viets & Victoria Laurie, Nancy Martin, Denise Swanson - Drop-Dead Blonde (v5.0) (pdf) by Unknown (howl and other poems .TXT) 📕

wide curve of cobblestones in front of a tall house fashioned after a Norman abbey. A stone statue of a medieval pilgrim stood by the front door, his hands outstretched to accept a tithe or to hold the reins of a visitor's horse.

I rang the bell and heard it echo inside the vast house.

A chorus of barking convinced us the doorbell had been heard. A minute later the door was opened by a wizened man wearing an apron printed with KISS THE COOK. Half a dozen little pug dogs swarmed around the dusty bedroom slippers on his feet, panting and barking in hoarse hysteria. Their agitation whipped up a distinctly doggie smell. Bun- ton, the Pinkertons' aged butler, bore the pandemonium with Zen-like calm. I always suspected he was partially deaf.

``Hello, Bunton,'' I shouted over the ruckus. ``I'm Nora Blackbird, here to see Pinky. Is she at home?''

Bunton gave Michael a slow blink, then stepped aside and waved us indoors.

As we stepped across the threshold, Spike heard the call of his brethren and poked his head out of my Balenciaga bag. Michael prevented bloodshed by scooping Spike out of the bag and pinning the puppy in the crook of his elbow.

Making no effort to make himself heard over the yelping pugs, Bunton turned and scuffed down a long, black and white checkerboard marble corridor lined with faded tapes- tries and some very ugly Victorian furniture. As Michael 42 Nancy Martin and I followed, I noticed the ball-and-claw feet of the chairs and tables had been chewed almost to oblivion.

We passed a faded dining room with a crusty chandelier and a library with few books and dozens of sporting tro- phies, until we finally arrived in a large solarium at the back of the house. Bunton opened the beveled glass doors.

Lined with tall windows and packed with too many yel- low sofas, the solarium had obviously been decorated by an interior designer who planned the whole room around the vivid yellow dress on the woman depicted in a life-size portrait over the mantel. She was a leggy brunette swinging a golf club--Pinky in her youth. The painter had captured the tensile strength in her lean yellow-clad body, and the decorator drew attention to it by his color choices in the room. Now the furniture was faded, but the yellow dress in the portrait shone as brightly as the day it was painted.

It had been a lovely room at one time, but today the place looked worn and smelled strongly of dogs.

Bunton paused in the doorway. ``Miss Nora Blackbird, ma'am, and friend.''

The pugs pushed past Bunton and raced into the solar- ium. They leaped onto the lemon-yellow furniture, snarling and yapping at each other for the best seats in the house.

Pinky Pinkerton sat in state in the middle of one of the yellow sofas with a lap desk across her knees. Two more ancient pugs flanked her, snuggled up to her legs and snor- ing wheezily. As we stepped into the room, Pinky dropped an ice pack down into the cushions of the sofa.

``Good God.'' She waved us off. ``Bunton, show them out immediately. I'm not to be disturbed this afternoon.''

Perhaps the cacophony of barking prevented him from hearing correctly, because Bunton muttered something in- audible and departed back the way we'd come.

I took my cue from Bunton and walked across the solar- ium, pretending I didn't hear her command. ``Hello, Pinky,'' I said cheerily. ``Sorry to bother you today!''

``I'm busy.'' She indicted the piles of paperwork.

``My goodness, what a mess.'' I knelt on the carpet and picked up some of the paper scattered there. Bills, I noted with a quick glance. From a hotel chain, a sporting-goods store, and a suburban boutique. On the lap desk lay a pair SLAY BELLES 43 of scissors, and I realized Pinky was cutting coupons from the newspaper.

I put the bills back onto her little desk. ``Here you go, Pinky. You've got quite a project going here. Can I help in any way?''

``Of course not. I can manage quite well.'' To prove her mettle, Pinky picked up her scissors and brandished them. But her grip faltered, and she bobbled the scissors.

Still on the floor, I picked them up for her. ``You've hurt your wrist, Pinky.''

``It's nothing,'' she snapped, covering her bruised hand and wrist with the sheaf of bills. ``I've had worse injuries. It's just a bump.''

``Here's your ice pack.'' I passed her the pack, then sat on the plush sofa opposite her.

Brusquely, Pinky accepted the cold bundle. ``Young man, what are you doing over there?''

Michael had strolled to a library table that displayed three golf trophies--all of them deep silver bowls etched with a woman driving a golf ball into the distance. Ab- sently, he stroked Spike's head to keep him quiet. ``This is a lot of hardware.''

``Yes, it is. Don't get any fingerprints on them.''

``Did you win all these?''

``Of course not. Can't you read the dates? Those belong to my granddaughter. This year she'll start winning the big tournaments. You mark my words.''

``She must take after you.'' Michael tipped his head toward the portrait above the mantel. ``Can she beat you yet?''

``Certainly she can. Kerry's much better than I ever was. Of course, I taught her a few things.''

He sauntered back to us. ``I bet you still teach her things.''

Pinky bit back a small smile. ``Maybe I do,'' she said. ``Come over here.''

Michael obeyed, standing above her and rocking back on his heels as he held Spike captive in one arm. ``Close enough?''

She put on her glasses and gave him a long appraisal that ended with his face. ``Maybe too close,'' she said at last. ``You're nothing to write home about, are you?'' 44 Nancy Martin

``You're not so hot yourself anymore.''

She took off her glasses again. ``You look