Not Our Kind by Kitty Zeldis

Author:Kitty Zeldis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-05-24T16:00:00+00:00

Fourteen

On Sunday, Patricia slept until noon, although she’d kept her vow and had nothing at all to drink the night before. It was the pill she had taken for her headache, she realized as she surfaced, reluctantly, from the insistent swirl of her dreams. It had never affected her like this before though; she felt like she was emerging from a state of dark enchantment.

Downstairs, the house was eerily quiet. There was no sign of Wynn, Margaux, or even Henryka. Only Glow, curled up on the rug and fixing her with her green-gold gaze. Then the back door opened and Henryka stepped inside. In one hand, she held a bunch of phlox, taken from the cutting garden behind the house; in the other, a pair of shears.

“Where is everyone?” Patricia asked.

“Mr. Wynn at club,” Henryka said, averting her eyes. “Miss Margaux sleeping.”

At this hour? That was strange. Patricia sank into a chair; the strange, befuddled feeling was still enveloping her. “How about Eleanor?” she asked. “Have you seen her yet today?”

“No,” said Henryka. She seemed to be deliberately avoiding Patricia’s gaze. What was wrong with her?

“Well, I guess she’s sleeping late too,” she said with forced cheer. “Is there any coffee on the stove? I’d love a cup.”

“Of course.” Henryka filled a vase with water and placed the flowers in it before turning her attention to the coffee.

“Have you baked anything?” Patricia asked. There were no enticing smells emanating from the oven, no pans or trays in evidence.

“No,” Henryka said. “You want I should bake now?”

“That’s all right, Henryka,” Patricia said, moving toward the door to go check on Margaux. “Just the coffee; we’ll eat when everyone is up.”

Henryka nodded and finally let her gaze meet Patricia’s. In her cool green eyes, Patricia saw an unfamiliar expression she could not quite identify.

Margaux was asleep, curled on her side, the covers peeled back, her bad leg exposed, snoring lightly. Patricia stood staring at the leg for a moment; she rarely saw it anymore since Margaux was so careful about keeping it covered. But now she could look all she wanted at the thin, malformed limb, its ankle as shrunken as a toddler’s. She forced herself to look elsewhere, at her daughter’s face. When had the girl ever slept so late? She closed the door quietly and went into the kitchen where the coffee waited. Then she picked up the black telephone and asked the operator to put her through to the club. Mr. Hennessy, the day manager, picked up on the first ring.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bellamy,” he said once she identified herself. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for my husband,” she said. “I’d like to speak to him, please.”

“Mr. Bellamy hasn’t been here today,” said Mr. Hennessy. In the background, there were short bursts of laughter. The club on a Sunday afternoon in the summer was a lively place.

“Are you sure?” Patricia asked. “Perhaps he’s gone sailing?”

“I’m quite sure, Mrs. Bellamy,” Mr. Hennessy was saying. “All guests have to sign in.

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