Three Bedrooms, One Corpse - By Charlaine Harris Page 0,34
too tired to glance that way this morning.
“Roe, this is Eileen, calling on Saturday evening. I have two houses to show you Sunday afternoon if it’s convenient for you, in the afternoon. Give me a call.”
A moment of silence between messages.
“Roe, are you asleep?” My face flushed when I heard Martin’s voice. He’d probably called while I was in the shower. “I’m calling from work, sweetheart. I can hardly wait until tomorrow night. I can’t make it to Atlanta that night since I have a meeting early Tuesday morning, but we can at least go to the Carriage House.” That being Lawrenceton’s best restaurant. “I want to see you again,” he said simply. “You made me very happy.”
I was pretty damn happy myself.
I called Eileen back to make an appointment for two o’clock, then decided to treat myself to lunch somewhere. On impulse, I punched the number of my reporter friend, Sally Allison, and we arranged to meet at the local Beef ‘N More.
Thirty minutes later we were settled opposite each other, after waiting in line through the Sunday church crowd. Sally was working on a hamburger and a salad, and I had virtuously opted for the salad bar only, though I could certainly get enough calories from what was spread up and down its length.
Sally was older than I by more than twelve years, but we’re good friends. She was a Sally who wouldn’t tolerate a nickname. Sally had bronze hair, never out of place, and she bought expensive clothes and ran them into the ground. She was wearing a black suit I’d seen on her countless times, and it still looked good. For once, she had some news to impart before she started digging for more.
“Paul’s working today. He and I got married last weekend,” she said casually, and the cellophane package of crackers I was trying to open exploded. I hastily began to gather up the crumbs.
“You married your first husband’s brother?”
“You know we’ve been dating for a long time.”
“Well, yes, but I didn’t know it was going to result in a marriage!”
“He’s great.”
We chatted away. I was dying to know what the first Mr. Allison thought of this new situation, but was aware I really must not ask.
The third time Sally was explaining to me how wonderful Paul was (she knew I’d heard while dating Arthur Smith that Paul had never been popular with his fellow detectives), I was sufficiently bored and skeptical to look around me. To my surprise, I spied Donnie Greenhouse eating lunch with Idella. They were sitting in one of the few places in the steak house where you could talk without being overheard. Donnie was leaning over the table, talking earnestly and quickly to Idella, whose delicate coloring was showing unbecoming blotches of stress. Idella was shaking her head from side to side.
What an odd couple! It was a little strange to see Donnie out in public, even though I dismissed that reaction on my part as uncharitable. But with Idella?
“They certainly look put out with each other,” Sally said. She’d followed my gaze. “I don’t think this is a widower on the rebound, do you?”
There sure wasn’t anything loverlike in their posture or in the way they were looking at each other. Suddenly Idella sprang up, grabbed her purse, and headed for the women’s room. Donnie scowled after her. I thought Idella was crying.
Sally and I exchanged glances.
“I guess I better go check,” I said. “There’s a fine line between showing concern and butting in, and this situation is right on it.”
The two-stall salmon-and-tan women’s room was empty except for Idella. She was indeed crying, shut in one of the booths.
“Idella,” I said gently. “It’s Roe. I’m holding the door shut so no one else can come in.” And I braced my back against the door.
“Thanks,” she sobbed. “I’ll straighten up in a minute.”
And sure enough, she pulled herself together and emerged from the booth, though not until I’d had time to decipher the last batch of graffiti through a layer of tan paint. Showing some wear and tear, Idella ran some cold water on a paper towel and held it over her eyes.
“It’s going to ruin my makeup,” she said, “but at least my eyes won’t be so puffy.”
It was oddly difficult to talk to her with her eyes covered like that, in this bleak room with the smell of industrial disinfectant clogging my nostrils.
“Idella, are you all right?”
“Oh ... yes, I’ll be okay.” She didn’t sound as though