The Deader the Better

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Book: Read The Deader the Better for Free Online
Authors: G. M. Ford
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective
the new blue jeans to flap and snap in the
breeze like pennants.
    “The jeans are a little big,” I
commented.
    “It’s the style,” Rebecca said.
“Baggy’s all the rage.”
    Misty had spent what was left of last
night and most of this morning in our guest room. I say spent because I was certain she hadn’t slept. Maybe I was afraid she was
going to make a run for it, or maybe it was just a matter of having a
stranger in the house. Either way, I spent the night with the sound
of her shiny little shoes rolling through my head like claps of
thunder.
    Around ten A.M., while I was calling
Constance Hart, Rebecca ran downtown to The Bon Marché and bought
the kid some new duds. She was right. No way we could bring the girl
home to grandma in the Lolita outfit. While she was gone, I segued
into domestic mode. I don’t know why, but whenever I’m feeling
bad, I like to feed people. God knows I’m no Julia Child, but
stress me out and I start inviting people to dinner. People we
haven’t seen in years. Rebecca claims it’s my twisted way of
nurturing people. Way I see it, hassles make me hungry. I warmed four
poppyseed muffins, toasted a couple of cinnamon-raisin bagels, set
out some butter and some raspberry preserves, sliced up a cantaloupe
and some fresh strawberries. Crystal tumblers for the OJ. Place mats.
Napkin rings. The whole nine yards. Eat your heart out, Martha
Stewart.
    It was eleven-fifteen before the
three of us sat down at the kitchen table. After a dozen increasingly
feeble attempts at conversation, I was forced to consider the
possibility that the kid was still too stoned on whatever she’d
been taking to make conversation. She’d answer yes and no if you
asked her direct questions. She’d mumbled a thanks for the half a
bagel she’d torn to pieces but hadn’t eaten and at one point
asked if it would be okay if she went to the bathroom, but that was
about it.
    When Misty finally left the breakfast
table and went upstairs to get dressed for the trip, Rebecca crossed
the kitchen to the sink where I was rinsing the dishes, spun me
around toward her and put both arms around my neck. She gazed deep
into my eyes. I hate it when they do that.
    “You can’t fix it for her, Leo. I
know how badly you want to, but you can’t.” She pulled me close
and kissed me on the neck. “You’ve already done everything you’re
good at. Leave her alone.”
    She was right, but it didn’t
matter; something inside of me wanted to do something more. For whom?
I don’t know. At that point, I didn’t much give a shit. Rebecca
let me go and took a step back.
    “Know what she said when I brought
her the new clothes?”
    she asked.
    “What?” I growled.
    I was being crabby, so she made me
wait.
    “She looked down into the
bag”—Rebecca sighed—“and then she asked me if this meant she
should take off all her clothes now.”
    Constance Hart stepped out onto the
porch, closing the door behind her. The house looked more like a
commercial hunting lodge than a single-family dwelling. A rambler.
River rock and polished logs spread out for what seemed like a
quarter mile along the rim of a small butte. Behind the house, the
land sloped quickly away, pulling the eye down toward a five-acre
mountain lake and the valley beyond, where an unbroken series of
natural meadows and first-growth forest ran all the way to Puget
Sound, shimmering like a black mirror some three or four miles in the
distance. I hadn’t expected her to return so quickly. After the
bizarre scene in the driveway, I figured we were going to be a while.
Not once during the hour-and-a-half journey had Misty McMahon uttered
a syllable. Just sat there staring out the side window, picking at
her fingers and humming something under her breath…until we drove
up to the back of Constance Hart’s house, that is. I heard her stop
humming. Suddenly she sat forward in the seat, and I saw a glimmer of
recognition in her eyes. Before Rebecca managed to bring the

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