“You’ve been watching television,” I said. My moustache, now that I thought of it, was still stuck to that jar of beer nuts in the lounge across the street. I might’ve fooled her with that.
“They’d recognize you in Atlanta. Or Miami, Chicago, you name it. You’re quite the celebrity, Mr. Angel.”
“Mort. Guess you got me,” I said, catching an eerie little smile on Winter’s face, in her eyes.
“So…bugs?” Winter’s mother asked.
“Spiders.” I shrugged. “Black widows. There’s a bunch of them under the house.”
Winter’s eyes widened. She took a step back. “Oh, ugh.”
“Pretty damn big ones, too,” I said, trying to give the kid’s chain a little extra yank, now that I’d found a chain.
“But,” the older woman said, “are they any concern of yours?”
“Only if one bit me.”
She ignored that. “Nor did they bring you here, onto our private property, all the way to the side of our house.”
Our property, our house. Did I see a hint of Edna Woolley in this woman’s face, or was I only imagining it? “Uh, no.”
“Mr. Sjorgen’s death did, however.” A question filled her eyes, but it was a question whose answer she already knew. Might’ve meant she was a lawyer.
“Sort of.”
“More than sort of,” she pressed, in pursuit of a confession, truth, possibly even justice. It was hard to tell.
“Yeah, okay.”
“And right now you’re wondering who we are.” She put an arm around Winter’s shoulders.
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“I’m Victoria, Edna’s granddaughter. And this is my daughter, Winter.”
Something filled Winter’s eyes, like amusement. If it was, it was very chilly humor. Strange kid. I didn’t much care for her, I have to admit. And yet, I was aware that if I were to crouch down to tie a shoelace I’d have an interesting view if I wanted one. She would let me look. She wanted me to. She knew she looked good. Her arms and legs were hard. Not like Jeri’s, though. Winter was more the slender type, more like a dancer, someone into ballet.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“Now,” Victoria said, “go away.”
As abrupt and as hard as a slap in the face. Winter stared at me, registering nothing.
Get pushed though, and sometimes you push back. Suddenly I wasn’t ready to go. “I was hoping to have a word with Edna.”
“You and everyone else. You’re the last person on earth I’d let see her right now,” Victoria said.
“Is that your call to make?”
“Mine alone, Mr. Angel.”
I thought about that and decided it was time to fold the hand. She was right, I had no business there, or at least no legitimate way to get past the Minotaurs guarding the portal. And, what was the point?
“Who is it, Victoria?” an elderly voice called down from above.
I looked up. Edna Woolley was peering down at us from that third-floor dormer. Her eyeglasses reflected light, turning her eyes into shiny disks.
“No one, Grandma,” Victoria said loudly, still looking at me.
“Send him up.”
“It’s no one. Just an exterminator.”
“Send him up. He wants to see me. You never send anyone up.” Her voice had a thready complaining quality, but it wasn’t as frail as I’d imagined it would be.
I looked at Victoria. “Is that right? Is there a reason you never send anyone up?”
She studied me, then in a surprise move she stepped back and indicated the way with a sweep of her hand. “Go right ahead, Mr. Mortimer Angel. Be my guest.”
“Mo-o-o-m,” Winter said, her voice suddenly that of a typical whiny teenager.
“Let him.” Victoria’s eyes bored into mine. “Go. Have a nice visit. She’ll like that. Just don’t mention Jonathan.”
“Jonathan?”
“Jonathan Sjorgen.” Victoria’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Jonnie, as everyone seems to call him. Grandma doesn’t know anything about what’s happened. It would only upset her to find out. If you do…”
She let the thought hang. Still, just like that, I was in.
Like Thomas Magnum, like Hammer.
Well, almost.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I WAS IN, but I had no plan, no idea where to go from there. What could Edna tell me? Ten minutes ago I’d been on the street, brain idling in neutral, no prospects, a gumshoe only in my over-wrought imagination. Why I thought I’d gained ground since then I couldn’t say.
A chandelier that hadn’t been cleaned in thirty years hung over the entryway. The foyer led off in four directions, left, right, straight ahead into the back, and up. Parlor, living room, hallway, stairs. The interior of the house absorbed light, paneled and trimmed in walnut and mahogany. The air was stale with disuse, pregnant with age. The floor creaked.
I went up, cowboy hat in hand. Halfway to the floor above, I looked back. The gals were at the foot of the stairs, watching me, Victoria with one hand on the newel post. I’d expected them to dog my steps, Victoria, if not Winter. But maybe there was a trap-door at the top of the stairs that would land me in the basement on a bed of spikes. Or maybe Victoria was hoping I’d go up, get lost, never find my way back.
Which seemed likely, I thought, once I’d reached the second floor. The house rambled off in several directions and there was no sign of the stairs to the third floor or attic, whatever Edna was in. That Victoria was allowing me to roam around at will meant I wasn’t going to find anything worth finding, but now that I was here I was damned if I was going to just go away. The two of them had acted snotty so I intended to make a nuisance of myself. And Edna wanted company, as so many old folks do. How could I deny her the pleasure of that scintillating conversation that so amuses Dallas?
The walnut railing showed signs of age and use, but was layered in dust. Expensive antique wallpaper—blood-red velvet roses on a pink background—was peeling away from the wall up near the ceiling and along the seams. A blue flowery runway carpet lay over oak strip flooring. As on the first floor, the boards
