Closely Akin to Murder Read Free

made myself a drink.
    Shortly thereafter, I was in my robe and curled up on the sofa with a mystery novel. The muted strains of a Brahms concerto from the first floor mingled with the rustling of leaves outside the window and an occasional car. I was so engrossed in the wily amateur sleuth’s exploration of the darkened conservatory that I let out an undignified yelp when the telephone rang.
    I finally persuaded myself to pick up the receiver. “Hello?” I said with such timidity that I wasn’t sure the word had been audible.
    â€œClaire, this is Ronnie—Ronnie Landonwood.”
    â€œIf this is some kind of prank, it isn’t the least bit amusing. I don’t know who you are or why you’re doing this, but I can have a trace put on my—”
    â€œOn your seventh birthday, I sent you a tutu that I’d worn in a dance recital. You wrote me a stiff thank you note saying you planned to be a detective when you grew up and would prefer a magnifying glass on your next birthday. When you were nine, you fell out of a tree and broke your arm. Later that summer you sent me a poem that vilified Joyce Kilmer. Shall I continue?”
    â€œHold on a minute, please,” I said, then put down the receiver and went into the kitchen to splash some cold water on my face and some scotch in a glass. I sat back down on the sofa and, after a couple of sips, wiped my decidedly damp palms on my robe and picked up the receiver. “Would you care to explain?”
    The woman exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath all the time I’d been trying to regain my composure. “It’s a complicated story. My parents and I went to Acapulco in December of 1965. My father, who was a second-rate screenwriter, was hoping to cozy up to Oliver Pickett. Oliver was one of the most influential directors in the business, and was scouting locations inthat area for his next film. He’d won an Oscar that year for a much-acclaimed medieval epic.”
    â€œI’m familiar with the name,” I said, “but I still don’t understand what’s going on.”
    â€œPerhaps I shouldn’t burden you with this. I chose to disappear all these years, and I have no right to pop up out of the blue and ask for your help. I’m sure you have a busy enough life with your bookstore and your daughter. I was just hoping that your admirable accomplishments in matters of crime—”
    â€œHow do you know all that?”
    â€œI hired a private investigator. He didn’t delve into your personal affairs; but he found a few articles in the newspaper morgue.”
    â€œYou hired someone to spy on me?” I said.
    â€œOnly to find you,” she said in a reproving voice. “I need someone I can trust. Everything I fought for and attained is in danger. If you’ll allow me to finish my story, I think you’ll understand the gravity of my situation.”
    Not at all flattered to have been the subject of a PI’s report, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the curtains were tightly drawn, then said, “I’ll listen to your story, but that’s all I’m promising to do.”
    â€œMy father borrowed enough money so that we could stay at the Hotel Las Floritas, where Oliver Pickett was staying. I expected to be utterly miserable all three weeks. My parents were at ease with the Hollywood types, but I was shy and gawky and sadly deficient in social skills. At seventeen, I’d never had a close girlfriend, much less a date. Like many tall girls, I slouched and wore drab clothes to blend into the background. My mother kept enrolling me in cotillions and etiquette classes, but none of them helped.”
    â€œI always thought you were glamorous. You knew all the current slang and told risqué jokes.” I did not add that I’d never understood them, even though I’d laughed uproariously.
    â€œYounger cousins didn’t intimidate me,” she