Palm for Mrs. Pollifax Read Free Page B

the end of that list DNA, the genetic material that one reckless person could distort forever with a small bomb containing eleven pounds of plutonium.
    Madness, she thought with a shudder.
    The next morning, feeling more cheerful, she walkeddowntown to do a little shopping, but with no intention of buying either a dowdy hat or a cane; she had in mind a dinner dress. For a long time Mrs. Pollifax had nursed a secret longing to buy something more contemporary than offered by the third floor matrons’ department. She headed for the Psychedelic Den and spent a very interesting hour chatting with a young clerk in mini-dress and boots who labored under the impression that Mrs. Pollifax was going to a masquerade party. “Which, in a way, is quite true,” she thought.
    What she brought home was a long purple robe and an assortment of prayer beads. The robe made her look rather like a fortune-teller or the high priestess of a religious cult but it was a satisfying change. It was also drip-dry, she reminded herself virtuously.
    Next it was important to explain her departure to Miss Hartshorne, and this required tact. “She’s feeling lonely,” Mrs. Pollifax told her neighbor over a cup of tea. “Period of adjustment, you know.” By this time Adelaide had taken on shape and substance and she was finding it difficult to remember that Adelaide did not exist. “She and her husband were very close,” she added.
    Miss Hartshorne’s mouth tightened. “I think I’ve been your friend long enough to say what I think of this, Emily, and I don’t think much of it at all. You leave New Brunswick only when a sick daughter-in-law or a friend sends out an S.O.S. and I must say these calls for help have been increasing lately. You let people take advantage of you.”
    “Grace, I’m quite happy to—”
    “I’ve tried for years to persuade you to do some traveling with me but no, you simply won’t travel at all. What you lead, Emily, is an unhealthily dull life.”
    “Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax meekly.
    “You know that ever since my retirement I’ve taken one Cook’s tour a year—religiously—and if I may say so, Emily, it’s what keeps me young. You never go anywhere interesting, you never meet new people, now do you?”
    “Well,” began Mrs. Pollifax, taking a deep breath, but Miss Hartshorne was not waiting for a reply.
    “It’s no vacation at all, cheering up an old friend, and don’t think I haven’t noticed how tired you are when you return from these little trips. Your essential problem, Emily, is that you have no sense of adventure.”
    “None at all,” said Mrs. Pollifax, beaming at her friend, “but won’t you have another cup of tea, anyway, Grace?”

Two
    “Your attention, please … your attention , please …”
    Mrs. Pollifax glanced up from her thoughts, which had been occupied by the people hurrying past her intent on carrying babies, cameras, back-packs, luggage, attaché cases, odd packages, and nameless hopes. She had been thinking that her own plans were small and tentative: she hoped to find several pounds of plutonium.
    “… will Mrs. Virgil Johnson go to the Information Desk … Mrs. Virgil Johnson …”
    Obligingly Mrs. Pollifax picked up her suitcase and carried it across the aisle to the Information Desk. Almost at once a man detached himself from the crowd and hurried toward her carrying a suitcase in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. She peered at him in astonishment.
“Bishop?”
    He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “In the flesh, isn’t it amazing?” He thrust the flowers into herhand. “Beware the Greeks bearing gifts. How are you? I’m delighted to see you.”
    “And I you,” she said, beaming at him. “It never occurred to me they’d send—that is—”
    “Ssh, Mrs. Johnson,” he said conspiratorially, and picked up her suitcase. “Follow me.” He led her around the corner to a door marked P RIVATE . P ERSONNEL O NLY . Opening