"Donald Olson - The Busboy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Olson Donald)

“That’s okay, ma’am. No trouble.”
After a light supper Tyler mounted his Harley and followed the woman’s
directions on how to reach Stoneham Avenue Villas, which turned out to be a
development of large Spanish-style houses perhaps forty or more years old on the
western fringe of Unionville. Seen up close, Number 24 showed signs of long
neglect, peeling stucco and paint and untrimmed shrubbery, mostly rhododendron
and hydrangea.
Tyler knocked at the door and waited, waited so long he began to wonder if
Ramona Lerch might not be home. But finally the door opened.
“Do forgive me, dear,” the woman said. “I’m not so quick on my pins since
my accident.” She supported herself on two canes. “You must be Mr. Berlinghoff.”
“I brought your wallet, ma’am.”
Ramona Lerch told him to go through into the living room, not to wait for her.
Tyler looked about him with interest. Chairs and a massive sofa cushioned in worn
brown mohair. Tables loaded with knickknacks of no more value than carnival
prizes. A row of china dolls in soiled lace garments lined the fireplace mantel. A
faded Axminster carpet showed spots of damp where the black-beamed ceiling
might have leaked. Once-white plaster walls were threaded with fine lines of cobweb.
Tyler was aware of a faint smell, a mixture of scents: dead lilies, stale incense,
the mustiness of long-unventilated space. Streaks of dust coated the pleats of
moss-green velvet curtains closed as if to conceal the overall dinginess.
Ramona Lerch herself projected a similar impression of careless disregard for
appearances. The once-red wig she wore looked as faded as the dolls’ hair, her
dress might have been the same vintage as the doll clothes, her puffy face above
double chins might have been painted by the same brush as the garishly colored doll
faces.
 Tyler handed her the wallet. “Everything’s there,” he said.
“Of course it is,” she replied with the same candor, “or you wouldn’t have
returned it. Few young men would be as honest. You’re a sweetheart.” With that she
opened the wallet and extracted a twenty-dollar bill. “For your trouble, dear, with my
gratitude.”
Tyler protested. Ramona Lerch insisted. Tyler pocketed the bill, happy now
that he hadn’t turned the wallet in at the cafe. “Thanks a lot, Mrs. Lerch.”
“Miss Lerch, actually. Ramona to my friends—and chance acquaintances as
sweet as you, dear. Now sit you down and tell me all about yourself.”
There was little to tell, but Ramona Lerch listened to the scant details with rapt
attention, studying Tyler’s face as if it could tell her more than his few stumbling
words. When he finished, she continued to contemplate him with frank approval.
“Now let me ask you something, Tyler. I won’t be at all put out if you say no,
truly I won’t. There’s a sad task I must have done, and as you can see, I’m in no
shape to do it myself. It’s Pussky, you see. My darling cat. My sole companion,
aside from Mr. Chambers, a dear departed friend.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Long departed, not dead. But that’s another story. Pussky died a week ago,
from some feline complaint. She must be buried. Would you do me that service, that
very great favor?”
“Well...” Tyler was uncertain how to respond. “Where is the cat now? I
mean...”
“I removed the silver from Mama’s silver chest. Plush-lined, it is, just the right
size for a kitty coffin. I had in mind a grave under the catalpa tree out back, but as it