Death Likes It Hot Read Free

Colony-Restaurant-New-York but something in between. “Come sit over here and have a little drink. I’ll ring for … unless you’d rather mix your own … it’s over there.I’ll just have a dash of Dubonnet: I never have anything else; just a bit before dinner is nice, don’t you think?”
    She gabbled away and I made all the expected answers as I mixed myself a Scotch and soda and poured her some Dubonnet over ice. Then I sat down in the fat chair opposite her and waited.
    Mrs. Veering was in no hurry to get to the point.
    “Alma Edderdale is coming next week, Monday, did you know that? I love her. She’s staying at the Sea Spray … she’s an old friend of yours, isn’t she? Yes? I’ll want to see her of course. I would’ve asked her here but she likes to be alone and besides I have a house full of friends this week end.” She finished the Dubonnet in one lightning gulp. “Friends and acquaintances,” she added vaguely, looking out the window at the golf course, golden in the afternoon sun.
    “I wonder …” I began, wanting to get to business right away.
    “Will I have another? yes, I think I might. It does me good the doctor says: ‘just a touch of Dubonnet, Rose, before dinner, to warm the blood.’ ”
    I poured a highball glass of the stuff which should, I thought, be enough to bring her blood to a boil. Two ladylike sips got her to the bottom of the glass and I could see what one of her problems undoubtedly was. Anyway, the drink seemed to do her good and her eyes glistened as she put the glass down and said, “I like a mixture, don’t you?”
    “A mixture of what, Mrs. Veering?” I had a feeling we were operating on two different frequencies.
    “People. What else?” She smiled a dazzling smile, her dentures brilliant and expensive. “Now this week end I’ve tried to bring together
interesting
people … not just social … though they all are of course. Brexton is here.” She paused, letting this sink in.
    I was reasonably impressed … or maybe surprised is the better word. My interest in modern painting ranges somewherebetween zero and minus ten; nevertheless, having batted around New York in pretentious circles, I’ve picked up a smattering and I can tell Motherwell from Stuempfig with a canny eye. Brexton is one of the current heroes of 57th Street. He’s in all the museums. Every year
Life
magazine devotedly takes its readers on a tour of his studio, receiving for their pains a ton of mail saying they ought to know better than waste space on a guy whose pictures aren’t any better than the stuff little Sue painted last year in fourth grade. But Brexton has hit the big-time professionally and it was something of a surprise to hear that he was staying with Mrs. Veering. I found out why.
    “His wife is my niece Mildred,” she said, licking the ice daintily for one last drop of Dubonnet. “What a fuss there was in the family when she married him ten years ago! I mean how could we know he was going to be famous?”
    I allowed this was always a hazard.
    “Anyway it’s terribly nice having them here. He isn’t at all tiresome, though I must say I love art and artists and I don’t really expect them to be like other people. I mean they
are
different, aren’t they? Not gross clay like ourselves.”
    Speak for yourself, hon, I said to myself while I nodded brightly. I wondered if the Brextons had anything to do with my being asked for the week end: a big stunt of some kind to put him over maybe? I held my fire.
    Mrs. Veering helped herself to another tumbler of Dubonnet. I noticed with admiration that her hand was steady. She chattered the whole time. “Then the Claypooles are here. They’re great fun … Newport, you know.” She socked that one home; then she went back to her chair. “Brother and sister
and
utterly devoted which is so rare. They’ve never married, either of them, though of course both are in great demand.”
    This sounded like one for Dr. Kinsey