It was all over for me. I was pleasantly relaxed, reading the newspaper and drinking a bourbon-and-water highball. This is Lyn's apartment, naturally.
Lyn came tripping out of the shower, wrapped in a towel and a smile. "Hi."
"Hi."
"Ready for dinner?"
"Ready for anything."
"Ho, ho. You're a crazy man."
"That's what people keep telling me."
She winked at me and padded barefoot into the kitchen. While she clattered and hummed in there, I thought of the case again. It had finally died out of the papers; it was stale now. But a lot of people hated me, including, of course, the Trammelites—who now called themselves the True Thinkers, having got rid of their old name but none of their old ideas. The Guardians were in jail but, unfortunately, still living. They were still living, but Felicity was dead.
Felicity, Trammel, Wolfe, Dixon, all of them dead and buried, but when I thought of any of them now it was usually the one I'd never met. I had met some people I liked and enjoyed, though. Randy and Olive and Jo—I'd seen them all several times. And, of course, Lyn. Definitely Lyn.
I tried to finish the paper while Lyn finished fixing dinner, but maybe because of my thoughts about the case I couldn't get many kicks from all the good news: Critics Laud Show of Modern Art; Pope Denounces Birth Control as Sin; Teenage Gang Slays Businessman; Eight Take Refuge in Fifth Amendment.
I thought I heard a bell ringing, but it stopped. I listened a minute, then read on. The rest of the news was better, really exciting. There was to be a one-and-one-half-inch difference in skirt lengths this year. One of Emily Post's prototypes solemnly declared that one must remember to tilt one's soup bowl with one's left hand or something like that; mustn't drink from the bowl, I gathered. All good stuff.
I heard that bell ringing again. A little tinkling bell. I looked over my shoulder.
Lyn stood in the doorway. Her towel had slipped, and I thus knew immediately what had set off bells in my head. Then I noticed she had a small bell, a real one, in her hand, and was tinkling it.
"What the hell is that?" I asked.
"Dinner is ready."
"Served."
"Served, baloney. You can help yourself. To food, Shell, to food."
"Stingy!"
She smiled and shrugged—a dangerous thing to do in that towel. "The bell always means 'Come and get it.' Remember that at your peril. Now come on," she said. "Steaks'll get cold."
They didn't. They were thick rare sirloins and they were delicious. We had coffee and lazed around for an hour chatting pleasantly and happily. Finally, we sat quietly until Lyn said, "Shell, what are you thinking?"
"Oh, about today's newspapers. And still thinking back, about the Trammel mess, instead of ahead."
She frowned and bit her lip. "Think ahead, then, darling, now that it's all over, what are you going to do?"
"It isn't all over, that's the hell—"
"Don't make a speech. What are you going to do?"
"I dunno. People really honest at Greenhaven?"
"Pretty honest."
"Maybe I'll go back there."
She didn't laugh. She didn't say anything. In a little while she got up and went out. A few minutes later, I heard her in the bedroom. And I grinned, then I laughed and got up. I walked toward the bedroom, and I could still hear her bell, hear it tinkling.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1982 by Richard S. Prather
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4804-9926-3
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Always Leave ’Em Dying Page 19
