Free The Visconti House by Elsbeth Edgar Page B

windows sit right in their frames. That’s why the rain comes in.”
    Leon turned back to the windowsill. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
    This time Laura felt that she had failed the test.
It’s like walking on shifting sand with Leon,
she thought, and changed the subject. “Would you like some juice?”
    “Yes, thank you.” He had become very formal.
    While Laura was concentrating on pouring the drinks, her father came into the room. He was in a disheveled state, hair falling over his forehead, holes in his sweater and stains on his jeans. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and when he looked at Leon, it was as though he was trying to focus. Laura knewit was because he had been working all day and most of last night on an article with another tight deadline. She wondered if she should explain this to Leon, but he did not seem disconcerted.
    “Hello, Mr. Horton,” he said politely.
    “This is Leon Murphy.” Laura turned to her father, waiting for his eyes to clear. “Has Samson turned up?”
    “Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m sure he will soon.”
    Laura swallowed. She knew something was wrong. If she had stayed home, she would have found him by now.
    “Who is Samson?” asked Leon.
    “My cat. He’s disappeared.” She tried not to panic. “Leon has come to look at the house,” she said to her father, attempting to make her voice sound as normal as possible. She did not want to talk about Samson in front of Leon.
    “Understandably. It’s a very good house to look at,” replied her father, smiling at Leon.
    “Remember I told you his grandmother knew Mr. Visconti? Or at least she saw him when she was little.”
    Her father nodded. “He must have been aninteresting person,” he said. “I like what I know of him, from the traces he left.”
    “How’s the article going?” asked Laura, still trying to get the image of a bedraggled, frightened Samson out of her mind.
    “Finished, thank God. Sent off — and ten minutes before it was due. Would you like a cookie, Leon? I think they’re all right but you never can tell with things in our pantry.”
    “They’re all right,” confirmed Laura. “I tried one.”
    “Very noble of you, putting your stomach at risk like that.” Her father grinned and ruffled her hair. “Well, Leon, the official food taster says they’re fine. Are you willing to risk one?”
    Leon took a cookie.
    “Come and see the ballroom,” said Laura. “My mom will be there.”
    They went out into the hall, and then Leon stopped abruptly. “What’s that?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.
    “What?”
    “Listen.” From high above came a tiny meow. It was only just audible.
    “It’s coming from the attic,” Laura cried. “I wentup there yesterday. Why didn’t I think of it before? Samson must have followed me up and been shut in.”
    She dashed out into the entrance area and up the wide staircase, Leon following.
    “He must be feeling desperate,” she gasped as they reached the attic.
    Leon grinned. “He sounds more cross than anything else.”
    When she opened the door, a small furry head appeared, covered in cobwebs. As Laura gathered him into her arms, Samson explained in loud, emphatic mews that he was terribly, terribly upset — and terribly, terribly hungry. They carried him downstairs and gave him two dinners and a bowl of milk, and his purrs were so loud they filled the whole kitchen.
    Laura looked up at Leon. “If you hadn’t heard him, he might have died,” she said, stroking Samson’s gray fur.
    “You would have heard him,” replied Leon.
    But Laura was not so sure. She smiled at Leon, feeling suddenly very friendly toward him. “Come, I’ll show you the ballroom.”

Laura’s mother was leaning over the plan press, working on a sketch, when Laura and Leon came into the studio. The radio was on, and she was humming along to Bob Dylan as her hand moved across the page.
    “Hello, honey bear,” she said, glancing up. Then she caught sight