Free The Doomsters by Ross MacDonald Page A

name?”
    “Martha, just like yours.”
    “She couldn’t eat chocolate ice cream, ’cause of her algery.”
    “They had vanilla. We’ll have vanilla, too, with strawberry jam on top.”
    “Is Mummy coming?”
    “Not right away. She’ll be coming later.”
    “Is Daddy coming? I don’t want Daddy to come.”
    “Daddy won’t—” Mrs. Hutchinson’s voice broke off. “That’s the end of the story, dear.”
    “I want another story.”
    “We don’t have time.” She set the child down. “Now run into the living-room and play.”
    “I want to go into the greenhouse.” Martha ran to an inner door, and rattled the knob.
    “No! Stay here! Come back here!”
    Frightened by the woman’s tone, Martha returned, dragging her feet.
    “What’s the matter?” I said, though I thought I knew. “Where is everybody?”
    Mrs. Hutchinson gestured toward the door that Martha had tried to open. I heard a murmur of voices beyond it, like bees behind a wall. Mrs. Hutchinson rose heavily and beckoned me to her. Conscious of the child’s unwavering gaze, I leaned close to the woman’s mouth. She said:
    “Mr. Hallman was ess aitch oh tee. He’s dee ee ay dee.”
    “Don’t spell! You mustn’t spell!”
    In a miniature fury, the child flung herself between us and struck the old woman on the hip. Mrs. Hutchinson drew her close. The child stood still with her face in the flowered lap, her tiny white arms embracing the twin pillars of the woman’s legs.
    I left them and went through the inner door. An unlit passageway lined with shelves ended in a flight of steps. I stumbled down them to a second door, which I opened.
    The edge of the door struck softly against a pair of hind quarters. These happened to belong to Sheriff Ostervelt. He let out a little snort of angry surprise, and turned on me, his hand on his gun.
    “Where do you think you’re going?”
    “Coming in.”
    “You’re not invited. This is an official investigation.”
    I looked past him into the greenhouse. In the central aisle, between rows of massed cymbidiums, Mildred and Zinnie and Grantland were grouped around a body which lay face up. The face had been covered by a gray silk handkerchief, but I knew whose body it was. Jerry’s fuzzy tweeds, his rotundity, his helplessness, gave him the air of a defunct teddy bear.
    Zinnie stood above him, incongruously robed in ruffled white nylon. Without makeup, her face was almost as colorless as the robe. Mildred stood near her, looking down at the dirt floor. A little apart, Dr. Grantland leaned on one of the planters, controlled and watchful.
    Zinnie’s face worked stiffly: “Let him come in if he wants to, Ostie. We can probably use all the help we can get.”
    Ostervelt did as she said. He was almost meek about it. Which reminded me of the simple fact that Zinnie had justfallen heir to the Hallman ranch and whatever power went with it. Grantland didn’t seem to need reminding. He leaned close to whisper in her ear, with something proprietory in the angle of his head.
    She silenced him with a sidewise warning glance, and edged away from him. Acting on impulse—at least it looked like impulse from where I stood—Zinnie put her arm around Mildred and hugged her. Mildred made as if to pull away, then leaned on Zinnie and closed her eyes. Through the white-painted glass roof, daylight fell harsh and depthless on their faces, sistered by shock.
    Ostervelt missed these things, which happened in a moment. He was fiddling with the lid of a steel box that stood on a workbench behind the door. Getting it open, he lifted out a piece of shingle to which a small gun was tied with twine.
    “Okay, so you want to be a help. Take a look at this.”
    It was a small, short-barreled revolver, of about .25 caliber, probably of European make. The butt was sheathed in mother-of-pearl, and ornamented with silver filagree work. A woman’s gun, not new: the silver was tarnished. I’d never seen it, or a gun like it, and I said