Bad Desire Read Free

crossed the Rialto River Bridge and left the six-lane highway. The girl maneuvered through two traffic lights, made a right-hand turn and pulled into the high school parking lot. At the busy intersection, the Mustang drew to the curb.
    Gathering her books, the girl left the station wagon, mingling with the scattered flow of students headed toward the turreted building. Okay, Beecham thought, that’s the girl. Even at a distance, she was strikingly beautiful; tumbling about her shoulders, her blond hair glistened like a lovely gold cap.
    On a flagpole in front of the school, two flags snapped out on the wind—an American flag and below it, another flag with a panther leaping through a giant red P . Fluttering across the flag’s top and bottom ran the legend: HOME OF THE RIO DEL PALMOS FIGHTING PANTHERS . Beecham’s eyes took it in and then returned to the station wagon. The elderly woman, who had stayed behind, arranged herself behind the steering wheel and drove out of the parking lot. And that’s the woman, he thought, waiting for her to pass before pulling out after her.
    She stopped at Masterson’s Flower Shop and came out carrying a sprig of white flowers in a chilled cellophane box. She went into a dress shop, which according to its window specialized in weddings and formal affairs. Beecham noted that she was gone for less than ten minutes. With a plastic garment bag over her arm, she came out still talking to the dressmaker, who accompanied her as far as the sidewalk, gossiping and saying good-bye. The woman drove to the post office and went inside; minutes later, she was back driving the station wagon. Everywhere she received polite attention, and when she had gone, the smiles on peoples’ faces were tolerant, even kindly. She was obviously well known, holding a certain standing among these people and commanding their respect.
    She was a vigorous woman of seventy or so, Beecham thought, and she looked like a New Englander or a Quaker. She had that look about her—that look of independence and thrift, of God-fearing self-reliance. She carried herself erect; there was still a spring in her step. Age had not diminished her in any way that he could see. Her hair was dark silver, going to white, and she wore it short, like a boy badly in need of a haircut.
    In the open-air market of a greenhouse on Quincy Avenue, Beecham stood among flats of potted begonias and watched as she approached the makeshift counter carrying a plastic tray of six tomato plants. “Young man,” she said, loud enough to be heard distinctly, “could I speak to your father?”
    The balding man behind the counter seemed a little frazzled. “You know Dad retired last year,” he told her. “Rachel, you know that.”
    Beecham missed nothing. Appearing to sort through pots of begonias, he concentrated intently upon her, memorizing every small action and mannerism. Even the motion of her hand was printed indelibly in his mind. She said, “Then Jimmy Thompson, I’m ashamed of you. A dollar sixty-nine cents for six puny tomato plants. How much does your dirt cost nowadays, for pete’s sake? I’ve never in my life paid more than fifty cents for a handful of plants, and that was too much. Does your father know what you’ve done to his prices?”
    The man began to explain his rising costs, but it was no good. “All right, Rachel,” he said, at last. “This time you can have them for seventy-five cents, but that’s rock bottom.” And then after she had paid him and with a mischievous glint of victory in her eyes, taken the plants to her car, Jim Thompson muttered to himself, “Feisty old Yankee broad.” But he couldn’t help smiling. Rachel Buchanan—as tough as ever—had been his sixth-grade teacher.
    As soon as the station wagon drove away, Beecham left the market. Half an hour later, along the strip of motels flanking the interstate north