pulled out a toy truck. For a moment she studied it, and then she quickly pushed it back where it had come from. The fresh indentations in the carpet and the evidence of the recent presence of children all pointed to the fact that Mitchell Blaine had marital problems, probably fairly recent ones, if she were to judge by his intoxicated condition.
Sam had been nervously passing his Coke can from one hand to the other while he spoke, and now he turned to her. 'Mitch agreed to fly to San Francisco with us this afternoon.'
'I did?'
'That's what you told me, Mitch,' Sam replied. 'Remember how anxious you are to see our computer.'
Susannah rose quickly to her feet. Sam was lying. This was another one of his monumental bluffs. 'Sam, I don't think-'
'Call the airlines and make certain the tickets are taken care of, will you? I want to leave as soon as possible.'
Blaine drained his glass. 'I'm not going anywhere until I have another drink.'
Susannah was normally impatient with drunks, but something about Blaine touched her. Maybe when Sam realized that this man was in pain, he would leave him alone. She studied the fresh dents in the carpet and asked softly, 'Has your wife been gone long?'
Blaine's expression closed up tight. 'That's none of your business.'
'I'm sorry. I'm sure this is a difficult time for you.'
He reached for the scotch bottle. She realized that he was determined to drink himself into oblivion, and was equally determined that it be a solitary journey. As she watched the care with which he was performing each simple movement, she felt an unexplainable sense of protectiveness toward him. Even blindly drunk, he hadn't lost a shred of dignity.
She could tell that Sam was growing impatient, but for the first time that summer, the needs of a man other than Sam Gamble had caught her attention. 'I don't think drinking is going to help,' she said. 'Perhaps I could call one of your friends.'
Sam shot her a warning glance. Then he pushed her out of the way and took the bottle of scotch from Blaine's hand. 'You don't want to see any of your friends right now, do you, Mitch? Bunch of stiffs. The California climate will fix you right up. And once you see our computer, you won't even think about your wife anymore.'
Susannah began to protest, but Sam gave her a look so murderous that she fell silent.
Two hours later they were on their way back to San Francisco with a nearly comatose Mitchell Blaine slumped in the seat between them. Every time he began to wake up, Sam ignored her protests and poured another drink for him. Long before they reached San Francisco, a terrible foreboding had taken hold of Susannah. Drunk, Mitchell Blaine was formidable. She couldn't imagine what he would be like when he was sober.
Chapter 13
Blaine was not a happy man when he woke up the next morning. He staggered from Sam's bedroom into the hallway, where he bumped into Angela Gamble, who was wearing only a fluffy bath towel and nail polish. Angela was so startled that her towel slipped, which didn't bother her nearly as much as the fact that she hadn't had time to do her hair.
Blaine groaned and slumped into the wall, his solid body making a noisy thwack. In the kitchen, Susannah heard the sound and snatched up a water glass along with three aspirin before she raced back to the hallway.
He was still in the rumpled clothes he'd been wearing the day before. His jaw was covered with rusty stubble, his eyes bloodshot. Angela's towel was once again anchored under her arms, and she looked at Susannah quizzically. Since she had been asleep last night when Sam and Susannah had returned, she had no idea who her newest house guest was. Susannah gave her an I'll-tell-you-later-look and extended the aspirin and the water glass toward Blaine. He fumbled for them.
'Good morning,' she whispered. As soon as he had swallowed, she gestured toward the bathroom. 'I'll put some clean clothes out for you while you take a shower. There's a razor on the sink.'
He gave her a bleary, hostile look. 'Who
'We'll talk as soon as you've had your shower.'
She gently steered him toward the bathroom and quietly shut the door. She wondered what he would think of Elvis.
After giving Angela a brief summary of the events of the last few days, she laid out a set of clean clothes from Blaine's overnight bag, which she had packed herself before they had ushered him out of his house the afternoon before. Then she returned to the kitchen, where she began frying bacon. She and Sam had decided it would be best if she fed Blaine to help him over the initial pain of his hangover and then brought him out to the garage. At the time, their plan had seemed logical, but now she dreaded the idea of dealing with Blaine by herself. Unfortunately, both Sam and Yank were busy setting up a crude version of the prototype of the self-contained computer that Yank had been working on, and she didn't have any choice.
Very little time passed before Blaine walked into the kitchen. A distinct feeling of dread settled over her at the difference in his appearance. All those liquor-softened edges had hardened. His jaw was smoothly shaven and rigidly set. Although his sandy hair was still damp from the shower, it had been precisely parted and combed into unquestioning obedience. His clothing was impeccable. Even after spending the night in a suitcase, neither his pale yellow sport shirt nor his expensively casual trousers had the nerve to retain a single wrinkle. His hangover had to be deadly, but he gave no sign that he was suffering. He was stiff and starchy, sternly correct, and coldly furious.
'How do you like your coffee?' she asked nervously, as she filled a mug.
'Black.' He bit the word out, snapped it off, tossed it away.
She handed him a full mug and arranged the food she had prepared for him on a plate. She wasn't much of a cook and the eggs were a little too brown at the edges, but he didn't comment. Once again, she thought about fleeing to the safety of the garage, but she forced herself to pour a cup of coffee and carry it over to the table. To her astonishment,
Blaine stood and pulled out her chair. Instead of easing her mind, the display of courtesy was so chillingly correct that she grew even more uncomfortable.
She nervously sipped her coffee and observed his impeccable table manners. When Blaine was drunk, she had felt some sympathy for him, but now that he was sober, he reminded her too much of the men she had run away from.
He showed no inclination to speak, so she carefully reintroduced herself. He studied her for a moment, and she received the definite impression that he disliked everything he saw. Turning his attention away from her, he gazed intently out the dinette window. She could almost feel the effort of his self-control, and she braced herself for the inevitable.
'What is that, Miss Faulconer?' he asked coldly.
She followed his gaze. 'Where?'
'In the corner of the yard.'
'Do you mean the palm?'
'Palm?' He pressed his thumb against his temple and said sarcastically, 'Palms don't grow in the state of Massachusetts, do they, Miss Faulconer?'
'No. No, they don't.'
'Where
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and silently swore at Sam for abandoning her like this. 'In California. You're near Menlo Park, south of San Francisco.'
'Silicon Valley?' Each syllable was laced with hostility.
At that inauspicious moment, Angela came tripping into the kitchen, her heels clattering on the linoleum, her silver bangle bracelets jangling so loudly that he winced. She greeted Blaine and turned to Susannah. 'Mrs. Albertson died yesterday, and I need to tint her hair before the viewing. Be a dear, will you? If Mrs. Leonetti croaks this morning, too, call me right away at the funeral home so I don't have to make an extra trip. They use the same
