Ashes To Ashes: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective Read Online Free PDF Page B

a few minutes, I sent word that you
were here, meanwhile why don't you try the bar and just sort of
mellow in. Uh, you want to try the tennis court later—" He was
noticing my shorts. "—I'm sure you could scare up a partner, maybe
even some mixed doubles. I'd go for that, keep me in
mind."
    Kalinsky walked away and left me standing
there with my mouth poised for speech and nary a word uttered. He'd
not even heard the sound of my voice, and the impression was clear
that he felt no loss from that.
    I wandered to the bar and was trying to
massage the guy through my mind with a whiskey and soda, also
trying to get the drift of what the hell was going on here in the
very shadow of the recent intrigue.
    The "kid" may have had them "worried to
death" last night, but the recovery from that seemed complete—so
on with the games, eh?
    Or, I thought, maybe I was overplaying the
thing in my own mind. But then there was Bruno and his missing
corpse, the flying squad at my house, all that damned ruckus—for
what?
    And who the hell was Kalinsky?
    Maybe I was about to find out. His wife was
approaching, eyes fixed on me in an openly curious stare, swaying
along in the exaggerated movements of a cultured woman who has been
taught to walk properly, even barefoot in a bikini, but with the
motor nerves influenced by too many pulls at the cocktail
shaker.
    I smiled and made room for
her at the bar, but she kept on moving, until one bare hip was
nestled against mine. The voice was quietly pleasant, well
modulated despite the same type of motor-nerve interference, just a
touch of humor or maybe tease. "So. And just who are you, my
lovely?"
    I did not take it badly. Some people just
come on that way—some people like these, especially. I'd traveled
these crowds before. Not quite this rare, but close enough that I
was not intimidated by Marcia Kalinsky.
    I gave her my name and nothing else,
figuring that should suffice since they-all had been so wanting to
thank me for taking care of the kid last night.
    But apparently the name meant nothing
whatever to this one, right away placing her outside the circle of
"we all."
    "I'm Ashton Ford, Mrs. Kalinsky."
    "What is an Ashton Ford—something like a
Model-T?"
    I laughed politely. What the hell—why not?
"Not exactly. Nice party." That gave me an excuse to break the
stare-down and glance about at the others.
    "It's a rotten party. Same bunch every
Saturday. I'm sick of them." That bare hip was pressing closer in a
reminder that it was there. "I'm ready for a real party,
skinny-dipping in the pool, all that good stuff—you know?"
    I knew. And I had to get away from that
inviting hip. Besides which, it appeared that an ample bosom was in
imminent danger of defeating the few threads restraining it, and I
have never really learned to act cool in such an emergency.
    But there was a diversion,
of sorts, at the edge of things; another group of guests was
arriving, moving noisily in from the parking area.
    Also, and at the same moment, the princess
herself—Karen Highland—presented herself at poolside.
    She was stark, staring naked and walking
directly toward me.
    About halfway there, she lofted ahead a
greeting in clear, sweet tones. "Ashton! How wonderful!"
    By this time she is at my side, the other
side opposite bare hip, clasping my hand warmly and raising it
overhead in some sort of triumphant gesture.
    "Look, everyone! This is Ashton! My sex
surrogate! He has kindly consented to give me an orgasm!"
    Everyone, it seemed, was just staring at us
rather stupidly. The silence, for a moment there, was
thunderous.
    Then Marcia Kalinsky blurted, "God's sake,
Karen! You've lost your suit!"
    Whereupon "the kid" seemed to rouse from
some weird form of waking trance, looked down at her naked self in
absolute horror, dropped my hand as though it were a firebrand, and
bolted back into the sanctuary of her palace.
    It was at about that moment, I believe, that
I began thinking about Karen Highland in terms of