by Craig Rice
Archie grabbed the package, stuck it in Mr. Holbrook’s hands, and said, “Here, you.”
Henry Holbrook tore open the wrappings. The picture dropped out. Harriet Holbrook, otherwise Ardena, picked it up and gave a delighted cry.
“Oh, Pops! This is the picture I’ve been looking everywhere for! To use in that publicity spread! How I started out in burlesque and ended up as a—”
But Henry Holbrook had been glancing over the letters. There was a happy, and slightly dazed light in his eyes. “Harriet. Did you—”
“Let’s go,” Dinah said. The three young Carstairs raced up the walk, unnoticed.
“Well,” April said, “I feel like I’d unintentionally done all my good deeds for the next two or three years. Let’s stroll down to Luke’s and see if we can collect on those malts.”
Dinah shook her head. “Home. Fast. Mother has a date tonight, remember? Those reporters must have gone by now.”
“I guess you’re right,” April said with a sigh. “We do have arrangements to make. Home it is. And, Archie, stop throwing stones at Mr. Holbrook’s cat. Just because it scratched you!”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mother’s date tonight was a very important one. What ought she to wear? Blue, Dinah insisted. That was the color men liked best. She’d read it in a fashion magazine once. April held out for rose. Mother looked really wolfbait in rose. They argued about it through two sandwiches apiece and the rest of the cokes. They continued to argue about it while dinner was being prepared. And then when everything was on the table, they realized that a familiar sound had been heard from upstairs all afternoon. So familiar that they hadn’t been aware of it.
They ran up the stairs, knocked, and went in. “Mother!” Dinah said severely.
Mother didn’t look up. The desk was littered six inches deep with papers, pages of manuscripts, notes, reference books, used carbon paper, and empty cigarette packages. Her shoes were off, and her feet were curled around the legs of the small typewriter table, which seemed to be fairly dancing as she typed. Her hair was pinned up every which way on top of her head, and there was a black smudge on her nose. And she had on the old working slacks.
“Hey! Mother!” April said.
Mother paused between a couple of words and looked up, with an absent-minded smile. “Just starting the new book,” she reported. “It’s going fine.”
Dinah drew a long breath. “Aren’t you hungry?”
She looked a little blank. “Now that you mention it, I am. I forgot to have lunch. Thanks for reminding me.” She got up, slipped her shoes on, picked up a handful of pages, and started down the stairs. Inky and Stinky came out from under her chair and followed her. So did the young Carstairs.
She walked past the dining-room door and into the kitchen. She smiled vaguely at the children and said, “You can fix anything you want for lunch. I’ll just scramble me an egg and correct these while I eat.”
“But, Mother,” Dinah began. “It isn’t lunch, it’s …”
April nudged her. “Quiet! Don’t bother her! She’s busy!”
They watched in mounting—and horrified—fascination through the procedure that followed. Mother scrambled an egg in the little enameled saucepan. She put a plate, a fork, a piece of bread and butter and a glass of milk on the kitchen table. From time to time she glanced down at the manuscript, pulled a pencil from her pocket, and changed a word. Finally she turned the flame off under the saucepan and sat down at the table, deep in her reading.
“Hey, April,” Archie whispered.
“Ssh!” April whispered.
Mother slowly ate the bread and butter and drank the milk as she read. When she finished the last page she picked up her plate and glass, carried them to the sink, washed them, and put them away. Then she went back up the stairs. The egg was still in the saucepan.
Dinah sighed and gave the egg to Inky and Stinky, who began wolfing it down. “Never mind. When she gets hungry, she’ll eat. We’ve been through all this before. We might as well have our dinner.”
“But Bill Smith,” April said, “and her hair-do. And makeup and everything. And the rose house coat.”
“The blue house coat,” Dinah said. “Maybe she’ll get to a stopping place by that time.”
“But hey, y’know what?” Archie said, sliding into his chair. “Y’know what? S’posin’ she don’t?”
“She’s got to,” Dinah said.
But the sound of the typewriter kept up loudly all during dinner. It was still going when the three young Carstairs carried their dishes into the kitchen and stacked them up to wash. And it was still going when the front doorbell rang.
Dinah and April looked at each other. “Never mind,” April said. “We’ll just have to handle this ourselves.”
Bill Smith had on a new necktie. His hair was sleekly brushed. He looked nervous.
“Hello. Is—your mother home?”
“Sit down,” Dinah said.
He blinked at her.
“Sit down,” April said severely. “We want to talk to you.”
Ten minutes later the three young Carstairs went into Mother’s room. She was just putting a new paper in the typewriter.
“Mother,” Dinah said. “Bill Smith’s here.”
Mother left the paper halfway in the roller. She turned pink. She reached for her shoes. “I’ll be right down.”
“Now wait a minute,” April said. “We want to talk to you.”
“Yep,” Archie said. “Hey! Hey, Mother—”
“You shush,” Dinah said. “Mother, listen. Do you like Bill Smith?”
Mother looked surprised. She nodded. “Of course I do.”
“Do you”—April drew a long breath—“do you like him well enough to fall in love with him?”
Mother gasped. She stared at them.
Dinah said, “Mother, don’t you think you could fall in love with him and marry him?”
Mother turned scarlet. She stammered. Then she said, “I —but—he probably doesn’t want to marry me.”
“Oh, yes he does,” Dinah and April said simultaneously.
“How—do—you—know?”
“Yipes!” Archie said. “We asked him a’ready!”
Mother gave them one look. Then she jumped up and ran for the stairs.
“Mother!” Dinah called. “Your blue house coat—”
“Mother!” April wailed. “Your hair-do—make-up—”
She didn’t hear. She was down the stairs and into the living room. They crept down the stairs behind her, their hearts pounding.
“Marian,” Bill Smith said, grinning. “Those kids—” Then, “Oh Marian—you’re beautiful!”
And as the three young Carstairs saw her face over his shoulder, she really was! They tiptoed into the kitchen and tactfully closed the door.
A moment later Sergeant O’Hare appeared on the back porch. He was beaming, and he carried a huge box of chocolates under his arm. “Congratulations,” he said. “I see you got what you were after.”
“How did you know what we were doing?” they said, almost in unison.
His smile broadened. “Oh, I knew it all the time. You can’t fool me. Because I’ve raised nine kids of my own—and I know!”
About the Author
Craig Rice (1908–1957), born Georgiana Ann Randolph Craig, was an American author of mystery novels and short stories described as “the Dorothy Parker of detective fiction.” In 1946, she became the first mystery writer to appear on the cover of Time magazine. Best known for her character John J. Malone, a rumpled Chicago lawyer, Craig’s writing style was both gritty and humorous. She also collaborated with mystery writer Stuart Palmer on screenplays and short stories, as well as with Ed McBain on the novel The April Robin Murders.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1944 by Craig Rice
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5025-8
This 2018 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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CRAIG RICE
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