Sweet Thunder Read Free Page A

ours. Parlor, drawing room, music room with piano and peach-and-plum wallpaper wrongly inspired by Gilbert and Sullivan’s
Mikado
, living room, dining room, nameless others, kitchen somewhere in the distance. Fine-grained oak here, bird’s-eye maple there, Turkish carpets everywhere. “Bedrooms and such are upstairs,” he waved toward the heavens, “there’s a mob of them. Help yourselves.” With Grace wearing the wide-eyed expression of a first-time museumgoer, he trooped us on through the downstairs until we reached a conical room at the base of the substantial tower, practically submerged in books. “Library,” he pronounced, probably just for the satisfaction of the word. Spying a rare-books catalog open on the overflowing desk, I couldn’t help but ask, “How’s shopping, Sandy?”
    â€œAbout like dealing with pirates, as usual.” He frowned at me a certain way, book lover to book lover. “What do you think of
The Song of Igor’s Campaign
?”
    â€œWhere ‘the wolves in the ravine conjure the storm,’ if I am translating rightly? The poetic flavor of that might not be received as well as it should by your library patrons, this time of year.” I inclined my head to the depths of snow and thermometer, which evidently were here to stay through the Butte winter.
    â€œYou maybe hit on a good point there,” Sandison drawled. “I’ll hold out for something less Siberian.” Noticing Grace biting a finger—I could tell she was trying to tally the number of rooms encountered so far, with floors yet to go—he addressed her with elephantine gallantry. “My hat is off to you, madam, for turning this hopeless case,” he indicated to me, “into husband material.”
    â€œWhat? Oh, yes. I mean, Morrie had a hand in that, too.” The topic of matrimony reminding her, she paid her respects to the late Dora: “I’m sorry about your loss.”
    He bobbed his head in almost schoolboyish fashion, evidently not trusting his voice. Clearing his throat, he returned to eyeing me critically. “What are you doing with all that foliage on your face? Hiding the mud fence?”
    There is quite a philosophy to growing a beard—or a mustache, as I occasionally resorted to—but in this instance, I’d done so simply as a precautionary measure. That winning bet on the corrupted World Series may have upset the Chicago gamblers who lost their shirts to some smart aleck with too much of a hunch, as they no doubt saw it, and I thought it best not to fit my description while Grace and I hit the high spots of the world. I had also added some pounds in our sampling of national cuisines; advancing from lightweight to middleweight, as I preferred to think of it. A bit of camouflage never hurt, in my experience.
    â€œI think it’s very becoming on him,” Grace said loyally, of my carefully tended whiskers. “Hmmp,” Sandison grunted, himself bearded as a Santa. The glint in the gaze he gave me showed he was restraining himself, barely, from asking, “Becoming what?” Before he could hold forth about me any further, Grace put in, “I’d like to look over the kitchen, if I may.”
    â€œMadam, be my”—he halted the sweep of his hand toward the rear region of the house—“I started to say guest, but landlady is more accurate, isn’t it. Heh.” Grace flinched ever so slightly and left us.
    â€œThat brings up something, Sandy.” I strolled the circle of the room for the pleasure of running my fingers over the valuable books. “Exactly how is this living arrangement supposed to work?”
    â€œEasy as pie, simpleton. I’ll hole up here when I’m not downtown at the public library,” he deposited himself in his chair at the heaping desk, “and use a stray bedroom. The rest of the place is yours and hers. Signed, sealed, and