Public Secrets Part 188

"Good morning, Mrs. Freemont."

Mrs. Freemont's dusty brown hair was secured in a no-nonsense bun. She

might have been anywhere from forty to sixty and kept her st.u.r.dy,

bullet-shaped body primly attired in good black wool. She had done day

work for Stevie for over five years, mopped up his blood and vomit,

carted out his empty bottles, and looked the other way when her

housekeeping duties brought her in contact with suspicious-looking

vials.

Some might have been duped into believing she was devoted to her

employer. The staunch Mrs. Freemont was only devoted to the hefty

salary Stevie paid her in return for minding her own business.

She sniffed as she opened the door for Emma. "He's around somewhere.

Probably bed. I ain't got to the upstairs yet."

Old bat, Emma thought, but smiled politely. "That's all right. He's

expecting me."

"None of my concern," Mrs. Freemont said righteously and went off to

attack some defenseless table with her dustcloth.

"Don't worry about a thing," Emma said to the empty hall. "I'll just

find my own way up."

She started up the old oak stairs, unb.u.t.toning her jacket as she went.

"Stevie! Make yourself decent. I haven't all day."

It was a huge barn of a house, which was one of the reasons it appealed

to Emma. The paneling along the wide second-floor corridor was

mahogany; the gleaming bra.s.s fixtures and gla.s.s globes bolted to it had

once burned gas. It made her think of the old Ingrid Bergman movie in

which Boyer, playing against type, had plotted to drive his innocent

wife mad. The comparison might have been apt, but for the fact that

Stevie had amused himself by hanging Warhol and Dali lithographs between

the lights.

She could hear the music, and with a sigh, Emma knocked, shook her

stinging knuckles, and knocked again.

"Come on, Stevie. Rise and s.h.i.+ne."

When he didn't answer, she sent up one quick but fervent prayer that he

was alone, then pushed open the door.

"Stevie?"

The room was empty-the shades drawn and the air stale. She frowned at

the rumpled bed, and at the half bottle of Jack Daniel's on the

eighteenth-century table beside it. Swearing, she marched over and

lifted it, but she was too late to save the glossy old cherry from the

white ring. Still, she set the bottle on a crumpled copy of Billboard

before she put her hands on her hips.

All the progress he'd made, she thought, and now he'd pumped whiskey

into his belly. Why couldn't he understand that he'd already damaged

himself so badly that the booze was just as much a killer to him as the

drugs.

So he'd gotten drunk last night, she thought as she sent the shades

flapping up and pushed windows open. Then he'd probably crawled off to

be sick. Asleep on the bathroom floor, she decided. And if he'd caught

his death of cold, it would be well deserved. She'd be d.a.m.ned if she'd

feel sorry for him.