Free The Goodbye Look by Ross MacDonald Page B

lives?”
    “Yessir.” She gave me another address in Pasadena. “Just don’t tell her I told you. Mrs. Eldon Swain doesn’t approve of me.”
    “You seem to be bearing up under it,” I said. “Is Jean Trask Mrs. Swain’s daughter?”
    “Yes. Don’t tell me Jean’s mixed up in all this.”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “That’s too bad. I can remember when Jean was an innocent little angel. Jean and my own little girl were best friends for years. Then everything went sour.” She heard herself, and sucked her lips inward. “I’m talking too much myself, bringing the past back to life.”

chapter
11
    Louise Swain lived on a poor street off Fair Oaks, between Old Town and the ghetto. A few children of various shades were playing under the light at the corner, islanded in the surrounding darkness.
    There was a smaller light on the front porch of Mrs. Swain’s stucco cottage, and a Ford sedan standing at the curb in front of it. The Ford was locked. I shone my flashlight into it. It was registered to George Trask, 4545 Bayview Avenue, San Diego.
    I made a note of the address, got out my contact mike, and went around to the side of the stucco cottage, following two strips of concrete which made an exigent driveway. An old black Volkswagen with a crumpled fender stood under a rusty carport. I moved into its shadow and leaned on the wall beside a blinded window.
    I didn’t need my microphone. Inside the house, Jean’s voice was raised in anger: “I’m not going back to George—”
    An older woman spoke in a more controlled voice: “You better take my advice and go back to him. George still cares about you and he was asking for you early this morning—but it won’t last forever.”
    “Who cares?”
    “You ought to care. If you lose him you won’t have anybody,and you don’t know how that feels until you’ve tried it. Don’t think you’re coming back to live with me.”
    “I wouldn’t stay if you begged me on your knees.”
    “That won’t happen,” the older woman said dryly. “I’ve got just enough room and enough money and enough energy left for myself.”
    “You’re a cold woman, Mother.”
    “Am I? I wasn’t always. You and your father made me that way.”
    “You’re jealous!” Jean’s voice had changed. A hiss of pleasure underlay her anger and distress. “Jealous of your own daughter and your own husband. It all comes clear. No wonder you gave him Rita Shepherd.”
    “I didn’t give him Rita. She threw herself at his head.”
    “With a good strong assist from you, Mother. You probably planned the whole thing.”
    The older woman said: “I suggest you leave here before you say any more. You’re nearly forty years old and you’re not my responsibility. You’re lucky to have a husband willing and able to look after you.”
    “I can’t stand him,” Jean said. “Let me stay here with you. I’m scared.”
    “So am I,” her mother said. “I’m afraid for you. You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you?”
    “I did a little celebrating.”
    “What have
you
got to celebrate?”
    “Wouldn’t you like to know, Mother?” Jean paused. “I’ll tell you if you ask me pretty please.”
    “If you have something to tell me, then tell me. Don’t fool around.”
    “Now I’m not going to tell you.” Jean sounded like a child playing a teasing game. “You can find out for yourself.”
    “There’s nothing to find out,” her mother said.
    “Is that a fact? What would you say if I told you that Daddy’s alive?”
    “Really alive?”
    “You bet he is,” Jean said.
    “Have you seen him?”
    “I soon will. I’ve picked up his trail.”
    “Where?”
    “That’s my little secret, Mother.”
    “Augh, you’ve been imagining things again. I’d be crazy to believe you.”
    Jean made no answer that I could hear. I suspected the two women had exhausted the conversation and each other. I moved from the shadow of the carport into the dim street.
    Jean came out onto the lighted