Rough Weather - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,20

eternity. The men wore blazers in various tones of blue and brown, green and gray, striped and solid. Most of them wore white or pale tan slacks. The women were in little cocktail dresses, some black, some flowered, all showing a lot of suntanned arms, backs, shoulders, and chests. A woman in a long, roomy white dress was in an alcove against the wall of the main house, playing a large harp and using a lot of wrist flourish to do it. She had a flower in her hair.

There was a bar near the harpist, and a bartender in a white jacket and a black bow tie. There were two cocktail waitresses dressed in the short-skirted black dress, white apron getup that had been the staple of dirty French-maid postcards in my early youth. At the far window, with her hair piled high, and the sun shimmering on her jewelry, wearing a very minimal white cocktail dress and very high heels, Heidi Bradshaw was talking to a man with shoulder-length blond hair who looked like he might be the lead dancer for the Chippendales. He was stuffed into a wheat-colored unstructured linen jacket over a maroon polo shirt with the collar turned up. They were sipping something that from where I stood looked like mojitos.

Heidi saw me and waved and gestured me over. I went.

“Here you are,” she said, and gave me a small air kiss near my cheek. “This is Clark.”

I said, “Hello, Clark.”

He nodded. Probably too muscular to speak.

“Clark’s looking out for me,” Heidi said.

“That’s nice,” I said.

One of the French maids came by with a tray.

“Mojito, sir?” she said.

“No, thank you,” I said.

“Oh, don’t be a poop,” Heidi said. “Have a drink.”

“I don’t care much for mojitos,” I said.

Clark looked like he wanted to smack me for not liking mojitos. But he contained it.

“Bring Mr. Spenser something he likes,” Heidi said to the waitress.

The waitress looked at me.

“Beer would be swell,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” she said, and she walked away toward the bar. I watched her. She did a nice walk-away.

“Could we take a few minutes to talk?” I said.

“About what?” she said.

“About your daughter, that sort of thing,” I said.

“That is of no further concern to you,” she said. “I asked my accountant to pay you. Has he not done so?”

“He has,” I said. “Have you heard anything from your daughter’s kidnappers?”

“I prefer not to talk about it,” Heidi said.

“Why did you agree to see me?” I said.

“I was trying to be agreeable. I didn’t want you to think that I was angry with you for failing to prevent the awful thing that happened. I just thought you’d stop by, have a drink, and we’d part on good terms.”

My beer arrived. Heineken. I took the bottle, left the glass on the tray. In a minute, I knew, I was going to hear from Clark. I was annoyed. I knew nothing, and the more I nosed around, the less I knew. I had no idea what Heidi was doing. I was being lied to. I didn’t like that. I didn’t like the growing suspicion that I had been used in some capacity I couldn’t figure out. And I didn’t like Clark. I didn’t like his hair, or his linen jacket, or his stand-up collar, or his square jaw. I didn’t like his tan, or his muscles, or the honey-colored woven-leather loafers he had on. I didn’t like his proprietary glare. Or his erroneous assumption that he could knock me down and kick me if he needed to.

“Do you have any idea where your daughter is?” I said.

“I’ve answered that already,” she said.

“What did you hire me for?” I said.

“I regret that I did,” she said.

“Me, too,” I said. “But the question stands.”

She looked at the Chippendale.

“Clark?” she said.

He nodded.

“Ms. Bradshaw has told you she don’t wish to speak of it,” he said. “You’ll have to leave.”

I had a brief internal struggle, which I lost. I was too frustrated.

“What’s option B?” I said.

“I remove you,” Clark said.

“I’ll take that one,” I said.

“What?”

“I’ll take option B,” I said. “Remove me.”

Clark looked at Heidi. Heidi had an odd look on her face.

“Remove Mr. Spenser, Clark.”

He was so spectacularly big and muscular that it probably didn’t occur to him that he couldn’t. Most times he probably just frightened people into submission. He put his left hand flat against my chest and pushed.

“Okay,” he said. “Move it.”

I brought both hands up and knocked his hand away, which left both my hands up,