The Raven Master. Diana WhitneyЧитать онлайн книгу.
was both stunned and alarmed by the emotional exchange, never having seen Althea so obviously upset. Before she could react, however, Edna hurried over and hustled her distressed neighbor away. After a moment’s hesitation Janine followed and found the two woman conversing softly behind a screen of oleander.
“I hate the bitch,” Althea murmured, ineffectually wiping at the wet mascara smudges under her eyes. “I’m glad she’s dead.”
Clucking softly, Edna took the woman’s hands. “Satan covets the righteous and leads them astray with temptations of the flesh. ‘Every tree which bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.”’ Rolling her eyes upward, Edna added a heartfelt amen.
Althea lifted her chin defiantly and uttered a succinct oath.
The older woman paled three shades. “God forgives your blasphemy, child, as you must forgive Marjorie. She is with her Lord now and has been absolved of sin.”
Janine frowned, completely perplexed by the odd exchange. Barely two days had passed since Edna had become apoplectic at the mere suggestion that Marjorie Barker might have been less than saintly, so this unexpected discussion of sin, temptation and rotten fruit was startling to say the least.
The conversation’s content, however, was none of Janine’s business. Even when motivated by concern, eavesdropping was unacceptable, so she quietly backed away from the peculiar scene, turned around and rammed into a male chest.
Gasping, she whirled around and laid a hand over her racing heart. “You startled me.”
“So sorry,” Jules replied uncontritely. “It was a lovely service, wasn’t it?”
“Uh…yes, lovely,” Janine murmured, still distracted by what she’d just overheard.
“And, I might add, so are you.”
“Hmm?”
“You look lovely this morning.”
“Oh.” She self-consciously smoothed the skirt of her teal print sundress. “Thank you.”
Jules dusted his immaculate suit jacket, palmed his slick hair and flashed a Continental smile. “The bonnet is quite fetching, although it seems a shame to conceal those beautiful mahogany tresses.”
Janine managed to stifle a moan. The quaintly described “bonnet” was a straw sun hat with a ribboned crown, and the “beautiful mahogany tresses” consisted of nothing more than a weedy thatch of dirt brown hair cut into a blunt, Buster Brown bob.
Although she really tried to be tolerant of Jules’s penchant for testing out new personalities, the peculiarity grated on her nerves. Last week, for example, the impressionable young man had watched three John Wayne movies on television, then swaggered through the boardinghouse calling everyone “pilgrim.” Today, however, his exaggerated formality and jauntily tilted chin appeared to be a pitiful parody of David Niven.
Of course, lots of people enjoyed performing impersonations, but with Jules the practice seemed more an eerie transformation than a quirky party trick.
At any rate, she was considering the most expedient way to extract herself from the unwanted conversation when she glanced toward the refreshment table and saw the man to whom Althea had been speaking. Leaning to her right, she peered around Jules’ slender frame, hoping for a better view.
He followed her gaze and frowned. “Who are you looking at?”
“That gray-haired gentleman standing beside the punch bowl.”
“Gregore Pawlovski?”
Janine straightened. “Do you know him?”
“Vaguely.” Disdainfully arching a brow, Jules brushed invisible lint from his lapel. “Althea said that he was once a European diplomat but apparently he retired last year.”
“So he’s a friend of Althea’s?”
“Ah, much more than a friend.” Jules leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “They were doing it.”
Blinking, Janine stepped back. “Doing what?”
“You know.” Jules smirked and offered a sly wink.
Janine frantically fanned herself and stared at the ground. “I see,” she murmured, regretting that she’d ever brought the subject up and quite ready to drop the entire matter.
Jules wasn’t. “Althea was quite mad for Gregore and had actually deluded herself into thinking that he would marry her. Can you believe that?”
Curiosity overcame social propriety, and she couldn’t keep herself from asking what had happened. Leaning forward, Jules spoke in a conspiratorial whisper that gave her the shivers. “Pawlovski and Marjorie Barker were having an affair. It was really quite sordid, and Althea was livid, simply livid.”
Janine was appalled by the lurid accusation. “How on earth could you possibly know that?”
“I have my sources.”
“Well, I don’t believe it. Marjorie Barker was a lovely woman.”
He shrugged. “She was a whore.”
“Jules!”
“Marjorie had sex with lots of men. She wanted to have sex with me, too, but I refused because she was unclean.” His dark eyes glittered strangely, as though pleased to have shocked her, yet when she showed her displeasure by turning away, he seemed genuinely grieved. “Have I offended you?”
She didn’t bother to deny it. “Yes, you have.”
“Naturally, a true lady would be distressed by the discussion of such indelicate matters.” He wrung his slender hands. “You have my word that it will never happen again. Please forgive me.”
Sighing, Janine massaged her throbbing temple. “It’s all right, Jules. Let’s just forget about it.”
“Of course.” He tugged his collar. “Perhaps it would be best not to mention this, uh, unfortunate incident to Grandmère. We wouldn’t want to upset her.”
Without further response, Janine walked away, trying to ignore the sinking sickness in the pit of her stomach. She’d always been aware that Jules was different; now she wondered if he was mentally unstable, because only a very sick person would make up such disgusting lies.
It never occurred to her that he could have been telling the truth.
Althea slammed furiously into her room. She flung her purse into the wall, threw herself across the unmade bed and beat the rumpled pillows with her fists. “Damn him!”
Clutching the bedclothes, she sobbed until the pillow slips were stained with runny mascara and soggy blotches of orange Pan-Cake makeup. Marjorie Barker had gotten just what she deserved, and someday Gregore—the two-timing bastard—would burn in hell along with his cheap whore.
Sniffing, Althea sat on the edge of the mattress and grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the nightstand. She blew her nose and wiped melted makeup from her face, then miserably dropped the wadded tissues on the floor. She stared at her bare knees, riddled by guilt and feeling worthless.
In spite of her crude bravado, she’d been sickened by the fire’s fatal aftermath. The worst part was that the Barker woman had died for nothing. It was a shame, a lousy stinking shame. A wasted tragedy. But there was no sense blubbering about something that was over and done with.
With a final wipe of her wet eyes, Althea went to the closet-door mirror and critically examined her full-length reflection. Sucking in her tummy, she turned sideways and inspected her curvaceous profile. Not bad, she decided. Her boobs didn’t droop, her butt was nice and tight, she could still crack walnuts with her thighs and her legs were to die for. Of course, her waist wasn’t quite as sleek as it used to be, but what the hell. All in all, she wasn’t too damned shabby for a broad pushing the big four-five.
So