Free Dead Low Tide by John D. MacDonald Page B

told me, Andy.”
    “I know. I’m sorry about that. Poor judgment.”
    “You’re sitting pretty.”
    “I don’t just know as I care much for your tone.”
    “Suit yourself.”
    We stared at each other and then he smiled apologetically. “Hell, I’m sorry. I’m just damn upset, that’s all. I want to kick something. You were handy. Truce?”
    “Sure. I know what you mean. I’m ready to bite, too.”
    “I tried to get hold of Mary Eleanor. Some woman told me she’s sleeping.”
    “That’s the nurse, I guess. Graman gave her a shot.”
    “She that bad?”
    “I was there. She’s real bad.”
    “That’s damn funny,” he said, talking half to himself. “They haven’t been getting along worth a—” He caught himself, looked embarrassed.
    “I thought they were getting along fine,” I said.
    “Skip it.”
    “Sure, Steve.”
    “I’ll let you know when I know something.”
    “Thanks.”
    I went down the stairs and back out into the sun heat. Wilburt’s Book Nook is three blocks up the main drag. I decided to walk, and wished I hadn’t, because about seven people stopped me and asked about it. I said the same things overand over, and they listened and licked their lips and looked like the people who always stand in the street to watch somebody jump off a building.
    Christy was on a small ladder rearranging things on a high shelf, and Wilburt was leaning with his elbows on the counter, his eyes a bit glassy, trying to take sneaky looks at her legs. The scene gave the impression that nothing up on that shelf had needed rearranging.
    He jumped a bit, and said, “Greetings, Andrew. Kindly accept my sincere regrets on the demise of your employer.”
    “Thanks, Will.” Christy turned and looked down at me, her eyes concerned.
    I said, “Can I take that big lush blonde out for coffee?”
    “Please do,” Will said.
    We walked up to Saddler’s and picked up coffee at the counter and carried it back to a shiny blue booth. Christy said, “It’s a terrible thing.”
    “It is. Go ahead.”
    “Go ahead what?”
    “Aren’t you going to ask for a lurid description?”
    “Dear, please don’t snarl at me. I know all I want to know, thanks.”
    “Sorry, You’re a happy exception. I should know better.”
    “I’m sorry, too. You can snarl if you want to. I can guess how you feel.”
    I lowered my voice. “Not entirely, you can’t.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “That rig he used—mine. After I walked you back last night, I took an inventory of the garage. That was the only thing missing.”
    She raised her hand slowly to her throat. Her wine-vinegar eyes went wide, like a startled cocker spaniel. “Oh, my goodness!”
    “At least that. And oh, my gracious, too. So it was old John pounding off into the shrubbery.”
    Trust women to be very much to the point when somebody tosses blue chips on the table. “You told them it was yours?” she asked.
    “Didn’t seem to be the time or place.”
    “You bought it in town, didn’t you?”
    “Yes, from Wally Farmer. At the Tackle Shop.”
    “Won’t it be—Well, sort of routine to check and see where it came from? Like they do with guns?”
    “They might. I don’t know.”
    “It happened early this morning, didn’t it?”
    “Yes. Why?”
    She looked down into her coffee and blushed bright pink. “I couldn’t sleep. Nerves or something. I walked over about five-thirty. You were gone and the car was gone, so I guessed you’d gone fishing.”
    “I did. Got a couple of reds. Didn’t you hear me come back in?”
    “No. I took a pill and went back to bed. Did you go fishing with anybody?”
    “No, I didn’t.”
    “Who was out there? Did you go to the Pass?”
    “Not a soul. I had it to myself.”
    “Andy, I think you took me fishing with you.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “Andy, if they find out that thing is yours, and that you were out on the key at the same time he’s supposed to havedone it … I mean it’s all