The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [20]
3
THE SMALL SUNKEN COURTYARD WAS PAVED WITH brick. The same warm reddish-brown material composed the facade of the church, with its unpretentious entrance portico supported on four small columns. The sun beat down onto the bricks; it was going to be a hot day.
They were there, all seven of them, plus Jacqueline Kirby. Most of them looked as if they wished they had stayed in bed. Michael was a study in sagging muscles and wrinkled cloth; he had propped himself up against one of the columns of the portico. Ann was wearing sunglasses, but when she took them off for a moment Jean saw stark purple circles under her eyes. A blue bandanna, tied in back of her head, confined her hair. Her dark jeans and shirt made her face look paler; her lipstick, carelessly applied, suggested a streak of orange paint.
Andy never looked tired; lack of sleep only stimulated him. The casual dark clothing that made his sister look sexless and boyish only increased Andy’s good looks.
Of all the group, the one who was most obviously hung over was Ted. He had all the symptoms: his eyes were bloodshot, his hands shook, and he winced visibly whenever a car out in the street blasted its horn. The sight of him made Jean’s jaw drop. Ted seldom drank anything more potent than wine, and not much of that. She had never seen him drunk, and even with the obvious stigmata, which are considered so amusing by people who have never experienced them, Jean could hardly believe it if Dana had not confirmed her suspicion.
“You missed all the excitement, leaving so early,” the English girl said in a gleeful whisper. “Ted was a panic. I mean, he was the life of the party. He was singing and reciting limericks in Hebrew and making passes at every girl in the room—”
“All of them?”
“Well, primarily me,” Dana admitted, with a smirk that made Jean want to smack her face. “I’ve underestimated that lad. He’s really something after he’s loosened up a little.”
Jean looked up and saw Ted watching them. He gave her a sickly smile and she glanced away.
“Do shut up,” she said nastily. “I’d rather hear Andy lecture on his specialty than you on yours.”
As Andy was the first to admit, he loved to talk, and he had inherited his father’s gift for smooth, popular description. But this morning he was cutting the lecture short. The restlessness of his audience seemed to affect him. Even José, who was usually a courteous listener, finally called out,
“Andy, let’s get inside, shall we? This quaint costume of mine is weighing me down.”
“Right,” Andy said. “I just wanted to say—ah, hell, look it up in the guidebook. And listen—anybody who wants to come back to our place and finish up the leftovers from last night is welcome. Just be back here at twelve. I’m not going to search that maze below for lost Sinners.”
The group broke up and Jean, feeling somewhat fed up with her unkempt friends, crossed the courtyard to where Jacqueline stood demurely in a corner like a prim little wren in a crowd of star-lings. Her feet, in neat white pumps, were placed at an angle of forty-five degrees; her auburn hair shone like a cap, with not a strand out of place; her ladylike silk print dress came down to the center of her knees. She was even wearing white gloves. The purse, of course, was prominent.
“Who are you trying to impress?” Jean asked.
“The elderly Italian lady with whom I am lunching. She happens to be a dear friend of the head of the university library where I am currently employed.”
“You’re a hypocrite,” Jean said, remembering the sleek pants suit of the previous night and the general air of relaxation that had accompanied the change in costume.
“I merely adjust to my surroundings.”
“Camouflage?”
“Protective