Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [135]
Like mine, until three months ago. “What colour was it?”
“Brown, I think. She had a hat,” he added, which I assumed was meant to explain his lack of certainty as to colour.
“And you think you saw her somewhere before?”
“Dunno. Maybe just her picture.”
“Anything else you noticed about them? Beard, eye colour, jewellery, that sort of thing?”
Gordimer took off his hat and scratched his balding pate in thought. “He'd a moustache, saw it when he turned just a little to say something over his shoulder. Never liked moustaches, myself,” he added, a surprising digression for a man so chary of words and opinion. “Wore a sparkly ring, diamond, like, on his pinkie. 'Bout my height. Wanted to be taller—wore those shoes with the soles. Foolishness.” My, my: Mr Gordimer really hadn't cared for his visitors. “The woman. About as tall as you, not quite so skinny. Brown eyes. Pretty voice. Southerner. Not him.”
I reared back. “A Southerner? You're certain?”
He shrugged. “That drawl. Magnolias and juleps. Iron underneath.”
I continued to gape at him, not only flabbergasted by the news, but by the simple fact of my neighbour speaking so many words. I scarcely noticed the addition of this third perceptive judgement until later.
However, the effort appeared to have drained him. I pressed for more detail, but he had given me all he had, or all he could manage to convey, because his words were replaced by shrugs and hand gestures, and a look of panic crept into his eyes. In the end, I took pity, and thanked him. He looked vastly relieved.
There was one other question, however, and for that I looked to his wife. “What day would this have been?”
The words that had been stemmed by her husband's unnatural loquacity burst forth as Mrs Gordimer provided me with the saga of her sister's debilitating illness in an unspecified part of the anatomy, with more details than I thought entirely necessary, but the essential detail of the day managed to creep in as well: March the thirtieth.
I thanked her, thanked him, and continued my backward retreat until I was safely out of the garden gate and the crunch of drive-way gravel was under my boots.
We drove away from the lake-house on Wednesday a different trio from that which had arrived on Sunday. Then, my apprehension had been so great, my two companions could only tread quietly around me; now, I was so eager, even anxious, to be back in the city I paid almost no attention to my surroundings; Flo sat in the front seat with her shoulders set in an attitude of pure disgruntlement, with Donny beside her at the wheel, silent and puzzled.
As we started up the drive, I swung around for a last look at the Lodge. I did not know if I would see it again, but I was grateful for the days here. Grateful, too, that my companions had proved so easy to get along with, other than Flo's occasional spasms of overly solicitous behaviour, pressing on me toast and sleeping draughts. When the last corner of mossy shingles was swallowed by the trees, I faced front again.
We passed through the bucolic little village and wound through the hills towards the sea. The original plan had been that our return would cross the hills to the faster road that ran up the eastern side of the Peninsula, but before we could turn in that direction, I leant forward and put my hand on Donny's shoulder. He tipped his head to listen.
“I know it's rather out of the way, but I'd very much like to stop at that garage we passed on Sunday.”
“Which one is that?”
“In the little town, Serra Beach.”
“Oh, right,” he said dubiously. “I'd thought to go back by way of Redwood City—along the Bay. Serra Beach would mean the coastal road again.”
“Would you mind awfully?” I asked, piling on the helpless female tones, then put in the knife. “It's the very last place we spoke, my parents and I, before the accident.”
He exchanged a quick glance with Flo in the seat beside him, then faced forward again. “No problem,” he said over his shoulder. “If that's what you want.”
“Very good of you,