Part 188 (1/2)

”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