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"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
wife mad. The comparison might have been apt, but for the fact that
Stevie had amused himself by hanging Warhol and Dali lithographs between
the lights.
She could hear the music, and with a sigh, Emma knocked, shook her
stinging knuckles, and knocked again.
"Come on, Stevie. Rise and s.h.i.+ne."
When he didn't answer, she sent up one quick but fervent prayer that he
was alone, then pushed open the door.
"Stevie?"
The room was empty-the shades drawn and the air stale. She frowned at
the rumpled bed, and at the half bottle of Jack Daniel's on the
eighteenth-century table beside it. Swearing, she marched over and
lifted it, but she was too late to save the glossy old cherry from the
white ring. Still, she set the bottle on a crumpled copy of Billboard
before she put her hands on her hips.
All the progress he'd made, she thought, and now he'd pumped whiskey
into his belly. Why couldn't he understand that he'd already damaged
himself so badly that the booze was just as much a killer to him as the
drugs.
So he'd gotten drunk last night, she thought as she sent the shades
flapping up and pushed windows open. Then he'd probably crawled off to
be sick. Asleep on the bathroom floor, she decided. And if he'd caught
his death of cold, it would be well deserved. She'd be d.a.m.ned if she'd
feel sorry for him.
