“It’s thirty-three degrees.”
“And life is a series of hard choices.”
“I’ll chew instead,” McCorkle said and produced a packet of Nicorette gum.
“Here he comes.”
“So he does,” McCorkle said, putting away the Nicorette.
The automatic overhead door of the Keyeses’ three-car garage was nearly all the way up. A moment later a dark blue Buick sedan, with Keyes at the wheel, backed out onto the turnaround slab. Keyes then drove down the driveway and turned west, away from Padillo’s coupe.
“Which car does she drive?” McCorkle asked as the garage door came back down.
“The Mercedes sedan.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw it.”
“When—the night you forgot to tell me who she was?”
“I didn’t forget,” Padillo said, started the engine and drove less than seventy-five yards before turning into the Keyes driveway. He stopped his car a foot away from the overhead door, blocking it nicely. He and McCorkle got out, walked to the front door and pushed a bell that rang some chimes. A moment later the door was opened by the Salvadoran maid.
Padillo snapped out a sentence in rapid Spanish that was much too fast for McCorkle. The only words he got were “la Senora” and “los Senores Padillo y McCorkle.” But the maid understood perfectly, especially the imperious tone, which caused her to duck her head, open the door wider and invite them inside to wait while she informed la Senora.
“The help must’ve loved you back at the old hacienda,
“It was a verbal shortcut.”
“Which scared the hell out of her.”
“She heard worse in El Salvador.”
“How do you know where she’s from?”
Before Padillo could reply, the maid returned, still scurrying and bobbing a little, to announce that la Senora would join them presently in the room of reception.
Padillo gave her his most charming smile, thanked her graciously and inquired if her longing for San Salvador remained acute. She replied that it had lessened a little in recent months. Padillo said he hoped she would soon be able to return for a visit in safety. She thanked him and said he was very kind.
By then they were in the living room that was filled with antiques. The maid left and Padillo and McCorkle sat on what seemed to be the two sturdiest chairs. A few minutes later Muriel Keyes entered, wearing fawn slacks, sandals, a silk blouse the color of bitter chocolate and a nervous smile.
Padillo rose quickly, McCorkle more slowly. Muriel Keyes chose to ignore McCorkle, except for a brief glance, and smiled at Padillo. “Michael, how nice.”
“Muriel.”
After she offered him her cheek to brush with his lips, he said, “I think you met my partner, Mr. McCorkle, when you were playing Reba Skelton, noted calligrapher.”
“Fast! Accurate! Prompt!” McCorkle said.
“Is that why you’re here?” she asked Padillo.
“Not really.”
She turned to McCorkle and said, “I apologize, Mr. McCorkle. It was very stupid of me.”
“You were really very good,” he said.
“But obviously not good enough.” She looked at Padillo. “What gave it away?”
“You shuffled in but loped out. That Lamphier lope, once seen, is hard to forget.”
“I was so damned frightened.”
“Not as much as I was,” McCorkle said.
“Please sit down,” she said. “Could I offer you some coffee? It’s probably still too early for a drink.”
“Coffee’ll be fine, Muriel,” Padillo said as he sat down. “Especially since we’re going to be here a while.”
“Oh?” she said, going to the near wall to press an ivory button.
“There’s something we’d like you to read,” McCorkle said as he resumed his seat.
“Read? Read what?”
Before either of them could reply, the maid, who must’ve been hovering just outside the living room door, entered to find out what she would be asked to fetch or carry. Muriel Keyes, using serviceable, if halting, Spanish, asked for coffee and rolls.
When the maid left, Muriel Keyes turned back to McCorkle and said, “You said you wanted me to read something?”
Padillo said, “A memo from the late Gilbert Undean.” He paused. “You did know him, didn’t you?”
