As he drove past the open six-car garage he counted a Rolls, a Mercedes 500 SEL coupe, a high-sprung Chevrolet pickup, an old open Morgan, a Mustang convertible, and a big Country Squire Ford stationwagon. None of the cars, except the Morgan, looked more than six months old.
Dill stopped his own car in front of a wide carved-oak front door with hammered black metal hinges. He came out of the 75-degree Ford into the 98-degree sunshine and immediately shed his seersucker jacket. He draped it over the left arm that also pressed the manila envelope to his side. The envelope contained the file on Jake Spivey. With his right forefinger, Dill rang the doorbell. Somewhere, far inside, chimes played “How Dry I Am.” Dill wondered who had put them in, Ace Dawson or Jake Spivey, and finally decided it could have been either.
To Dill the woman who opened the door would have looked unattainable, if his ex-wife hadn’t looked much the same. He had since concluded that all such unattainable appearing women are not quite lean, not quite rangy, and not quite beautiful. They do look smart and easily bored. They also look rich, or as if they had once been that way. And, he was nearly convinced, they all gave off a certain faint scent, which, if only he could bottle it, he would have called Class Distinction.
This one, who seemed to be mostly long tanned legs and bare tanned arms, stared at Dill for several seconds and finally said in a drawl that sounded both Eastern and expensive, “You are Mr…. Dill, right?”
“Right.”
“You were awfully rude over the phone.”
Dill smiled. “I was trying to get Jake’s attention.”
“Yes, well, you certainly did that.” She opened the big door all the way. “I suppose you’d best come in.” Dill went in.
She was wearing brief white shorts, a blue-and-white striped sleeveless top with scooped-out armholes, and nothing else as far as Dill could see, not even shoes. Her toenails were done in a quiet coral. She had sun-streaked, honey-colored hair, appraising brown eyes, a faintly amused mouth, and a slightly sunburned nose. She wore no makeup. Dill guessed she never did because she never needed any. She turned to look at him again and he stared back, deciding that she had the look of old money long gone.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I remind you of someone?”
“Of my ex-wife — a little.”
“Was she nice?”
“She sighed a lot and sprinkled sugar on her sliced tomatoes.”
“Yes, I can see why she would — sigh a lot, I mean. I’m called Daffy.” She didn’t offer a hand.
“As in Duck or in Daffodil?”
“As in Daphne. Daphne Owens.”
“Of course. I should’ve known.”
“I work for Mr. Spivey.”
“I see.”
“I’m his executive assistant, if you dote on titles.”
“It must be pleasant here — the informal atmosphere and all.”
“Yes. It is. I live here, too, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Well, I suppose we’d best go find Jake.” She turned and started down a long wide paneled hall lined with long narrow tables that held unused glazed vases. It was a very long hall, and if rest were needed, there were a dozen straight-back, dark wood chairs with faded red plush seats. On both walls were hung nicely done oil portraits of bearded men in nineteenth-century dress. The men all looked extremely proper and Dill was quite sure none of them was related in any way to either Ace Dawson or Jake Spivey.
“Do you know the house?” Owens asked over her shoulder.
“Jake and I were here once a long time ago.”
“Really? When?”
“Every Christmas up until 1959, I think. Mrs. Dawson used to throw a party for the city’s hundred neediest kids. Jake and I talked our way onto the list.” He paused. “It was Christmas, 1956.”
“But you weren’t really, were you?”
“What?”
“Two of the one hundred neediest.”
“Who’s to say?”
“It makes a charming story anyway.”
“Ask Jake about it,” Dill said.
She stopped and turned. Surprisingly, Dill found that she looked older out of the sun. Nearer to thirty than to twenty-five. “I’d like to ask you another question,” she said.
“Go ahead.”
“Do you intend to cause him any trouble?”
“I don’t know,” Dill said. “I might.”
Chapter 10
At the end of the long hall Daphne Owens stopped before an eight-foot-high pair of double doors and slid them back into the walls. Dill followed her into a large room, which obviously was the mansion’s library, with shelves of books lining three sides. Six tall leaded windows at the room’s far end were rounded into fan tops. The windows overlooked a garden, rather an elaborate one, where three Mexicans were digging something up. As Dill watched, two of them stopped digging, wiped their dripping faces, and started supervising the third man. Beyond the Mexicans and through some fading white roses could be seen the blue of the pool.
John Jacob Spivey rose from behind the large old-fashioned black walnut desk that was placed in front of the tall windows. He leaned forward, palms flat on the desk, his big head cocked slightly to the left, his shrewd blue eyes fixed on the approaching Dill. He’s still round and plump and pink, Dill thought, and from here he still looks like the neighborhood bully who’s bigger and smarter than anyone else. Then Jake Spivey smiled and chuckled and transformed himself into the most likable man in the world.
There was warmth in the smile, genuine interest in the expression, and keen anticipation in the eyes once they abandoned their calculating blue stare and began twinkling. He hasn’t got a shred of self-consciousness left, Dill thought. He’s no more aware of himself than he is of his big toe. It’s you he’s interested in, Dill. What would you like? he wants to know, and how do you feel? And what do you think? And where in the world have you been?
Spivey had begun nodding as Dill neared the desk. It was a nod of pleased confirmation. “You know what we did, Pick?” he asked. “We went and got older on each other.”
“It happens,” Dill said as he accepted the hand that Spivey extended over the desk.
“You met Daffy.”
“I met Daffy.”
“She’s from back East,” Spivey said. “Massachusetts. Went to school back there.”
“Holyoke,” Dill guessed, and smiled at Daphne Owens.
“Not even close,” she said.
“Sit down, Pick. You’re gonna stay for lunch, aren’t you?”
“All right. Thanks.”
Now settled back into his old wooden swivel chair, Spivey looked up at Owens. “Sugar, would you mind letting Mabel know there’s gonna be three of us for lunch?” He turned to Dill. “Mabel’s the cook.”
“Anything else before I go?” Owens asked.
Spivey looked solicitously at Dill. “You wanta do a little coke or something?”
“What about a cold beer?”
“I got beer right down here in this little old built-in icebox,” Spivey said as he reached down, opened the door of a small desk refrigerator, and brought out two cans of Miller’s.
“No coke, then?” Owens asked.
“Don’t believe so, sugar,” Spivey said and popped open the beer cans. “Not right now anyway.”
“I’ll see you at lunch, Mr. Dill.”
“I hope so,” Dill said.
She turned and started walking toward the double doors. Spivey watched her go with obvious appreciation, then smiled, turned to Dill, and handed him one of the cans of beer. “I think I might haul off and marry that one,” he said.
“You two’ve got a lot in common, Jake: background, taste, education, age.”
“Don’t forget money,” Spivey said. “She ain’t got any and I got a bunch.”