[04] The Dirty Duck by Martha Grimes

Author:Martha Grimes
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2014-02-06T20:00:00+00:00

19

When Jenny Kennington opened the door of the narrow little house in Ryland Street in the old part of Stratford, Jury felt a small jolt, not because she had changed but because she hadn’t. Not only the same hair, but worn in the same way, pulled back and carelessly tied at the base of her neck by a small headscarf, the oak-colored ends curling up. It might not have been the same skirt—all good wool looked the same—but it was certainly the same sweater. He remembered how its silvery thread had caught the late sun as they stood in the great empty dining room of Stonington.

“Superintendent Jury!” The smile came quickly and was as quickly erased, as if she wasn’t sure what her position with him was. But after her initial surprise, as she stepped aside to admit him, she seemed aware of a secret that neither of them knew they’d shared.

Jury found himself staring at a familiar scene: the room—a front parlor of sorts—was full of packing boxes, some full and strapped, others half-full or empty. She was not, he knew, moving in.

She followed the direction of his gaze and raised her arms and let them drop again in a gesture of helplessness. Her expression was not happy as she said, “I never seem to be able to offer you a chair. The furniture, except for a bed and a few other things, I’ve sold already. Well, there didn’t seem much sense in moving all of those bulky things . . .”

“The chair doesn’t matter. Is this sturdy enough to sit on?” He indicated one of the strapped boxes.

“Yes, of course.”

Gingerly, he sat on the edge of the packing case.

She sat down too, on the one facing him. “Do you have a cigarette?”

“Of course.” He brought out a pack. There was only one left. When he saw her reach and then hesitate, he said, “Go on, take it. I’m trying to cut down anyway.” He would have given a month’s pay for a cigarette and a bottle of whiskey at that moment to get him through this. Still she hesitated. “Go on,” he urged.

“We’ll share it.”

“Okay,” he said, smiling, and lighting it for her. “Where’re you going?”

“There’s an aunt of mine, elderly and rather ill. She wants to go on a sea voyage and needs someone to go with her. I’m the only family she’s got left. And she’s all of mine. The rest are dead.” She exhaled and passed the cigarette to Jury. “It’s funny. Other people seem to keep adding to their lives—you know, husbands, children, grandchildren—; I seem to keep diminishing.”

There was no self-pity in the words, which were more highly charged simply because she said them so flatly.

Jury took a drag on the cigarette, tasting her mouth like a memory, and handed it back. “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

Her gaze seemed fixed on a point in air over his shoulder. “I wonder.” Her eyes rested on his, then.

He tried on a smile; it didn’t seem to work very well.

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