“The usual,” she repeated.
Oscar shrugged again, turned, and went back behind the bookcase. For all I knew there was a closet back there where he lived with a maid, a chauffeur, and a cook.
“Now, Miss Fine,” I said.
“He’s not a very good servant, is he?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “Never had a butler and never been one.”
“Are you here on business?”
“I’m working for Milo Sweet, like Oscar said.”
“Oh, Mr. Sweet. You know I like that name. Sweet. I love sweets, and so I liked his name right away.”
“You asked Mr. Sweet to look for Bartholomew Perry.”
“Bartholomew? I did?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“He did? Well then he must be right.”
By that time I was completely lost. Either Winifred Fine was senile or so wily that there was no way for me to understand her motives.
“Why do you think you might have wanted him to find BB?” I asked.
“What did Mr. Sweet say I wanted?”
“He said that you wanted to have a secret talk with Bartholomew.”
Miss Fine grinned and ducked her head as if we were exchanging confidences.
“Your tea,” Oscar said.
He had come in from behind the bookcase with a silver tray supported by his left hand. The tray held a slender tumbler of milky ice tea and a squat glass filled with amber liquid. I took my glass. Oscar then proffered the tray to his mistress. She took the liquor with eagerness.
“Miss Fine will see you now,” Oscar said to me.
“What?” I said.
“She’s waiting for you in her sitting room.”
“Isn’t this Miss Fine?”
“Rose Fine,” Oscar said. “Miss Winifred is waiting for you in her sitting room.”
“But he’s my guest,” Rose Fine whined. “I’m all dressed up.”
“I’ll be back in just a little bit,” I said.
I took the old woman’s hand and kissed it.
She gasped and yanked the hand away.
10
“I AM WINIFRED FINE,” the woman standing in the doorway said.
She was almost my height (which is five foot eight) and slender, the color of twilight after a storm. She had been beautiful as a young woman. She was handsome today.
“Paris Minton,” I said.
I extended my hand and she turned her back on me, gliding into the large sitting room that Oscar had led me to.
This room was immaculate. The custard-colored walls, edged in dark wood, were twenty feet high. From the ceiling there hung a crystal-and-amber chandelier the like of which I’d never seen before or since. The light through the different crystals was both brilliant and warm. It seemed like a fireplace blazing from the ceiling.
“Have a seat, Mr. Minton.”
Along the walls there were several framed landscape paintings, hung all in a line. At the end of the room were full-length purple curtains. There was a large desk before them and then four red-and-blue-striped sofas that formed a square. I took a seat at the corner of one of the sofas. At the edge of the couch opposite me was a toy gyroscope, the kind that had a slender pump at the top with a bright red handle made from wood.
“A child?” I asked the lady.
“Yes,” she said with a happy smile that bordered on being a grin. “My grandson had been staying with me for a while. He’s away for a few nights with some friends on holiday.”
I wondered what kind of friends millionaire black women had.
Oscar took up a post at my side. I got the feeling that if I made any quick movements he would shoot me before I could be of any threat to the lady.
Winifred did not sit.
