Hours to Kill by Ursula Curtiss

Author:Ursula Curtiss [Curtiss, Ursula]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-06-13T16:00:00+00:00

The rag she had used to wash the flagstones was an unrecognizable twist of black when she went out to look; nevertheless, the same driving urgency that had propelled her then made her scour the yard for all the leaves and wind-driven scraps of paper she could find and light a second fire. The rag sank into fragility, then into ash. No one could ever tell, now, that she had scrubbed a man’s blood off the porch, deliberately destroying evidence of—

No. That was only in her own mind. The Southwest was not the tame and civilized East; you had only to read the newspapers to know that quarrels were still settled quite frequently with knives or guns. That was open battle, not the dark and secret process that murder suggested. In any case, the man on the porch had probably only been wounded.

Intolerable to think anything else. That he had swayed this time because he was dying, that some bewildered instinct had led him to seek help in a house where he had been used to receiving money, that Margaret had driven him back into the night to die by himself.

Another, colder thought touched her. Suppose that at this minute, while she stood here in warm light under a sky that seemed tangibly blue, he lay somewhere quite near her, unaware any more of light or sky?

Stepping as carefully as though she had heard a whir of rattles in the grass, Margaret began to search the grounds. The garage, first, piled with sealed cartons belonging to Cornelia and Philip, boxes and roped trunks of Mrs. Foale’s. Then around the house, under pear and apple trees to where the walled front lawn ran lengthwise to taller trees at either end. She had no eye for the neglected gardens, the jonquils budding hopefully in the midst of drifted leaves and twigs and last year’s brown stalks. She looked for worn dungarees, a big-brimmed hat, a slender olive hand—and they weren’t here.

At least . . . there was one more place to search, or rather, two: the twin concrete-lined pits, perhaps four feet deep, that flanked the gate on the inside of the adobe wall. Margaret had no idea of their function, but either one would be a certain trap for feet weaving off into the dark.

The first held only dead leaves, twigs, and two ancient newspapers still in their tight cylindrical fold. She caught her breath at the second, but the piece of blue cloth was a wind-whipped fragment, faded and rotting.

It would be dreadful if he came back, after that parting gesture of fury. It would be worse if he did not. When the doorbell rang at ten o’clock Margaret’s nervous fingers dropped a glass shatteringly into the sink, but the shadow cast on the door curtain was a woman’s.

It was Elizabeth Honeyman with news of Mrs. Foale.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.