PW01 - Died On The Vine Read Online Free PDF Page A

Jack about his Proper Place, though as personality quirks go, this one is fairly benign.
    But this time, I was innocent! “What are you talking about?”
    “The shovel and the secateurs.”
    “Don’t look at me, I haven’t used them. Where did you find them?”
    “I didn’t find them, that’s the point. They aren’t there.” Now he was trying even harder to be patient.
    “That’s weird. But honestly, Jack, I haven’t been using them. I don’t know where they are.”
    “They didn’t just walk out on their own.” And he left. I’m sure he was thinking that I borrowed them and forgot, but I’m not that absent-minded.
     
     
    At the library, I returned our books plus the shopping bag of Julia’s mysteries, and then turned to that most valuable of research aids, the Reader’s Guide to Periodic Literature.
    I found a number of references to Winslow in the recent news weeklies, but most of them were only brief accounts of the latest rescue fiasco. But, as Wizard indicated, U.S. News and World Report had done a profile on Winslow several months ago.
    I skimmed the piece; the authors didn’t seem too impressed with our Obie. He was pictured leaning over a white three-bar fence on his property in Virginia’s horse country, looking every inch the country squire. The article referred to the “estate inherited from his late wife.” His sources of income were undetermined, the article concluded darkly.
    I copied the article for more in-depth analysis, and headed home.
    Polly was restless that night. Normally she is asleep at the foot of the bed by the time Jack and I put aside our bedtime reading and turn out the light. But now she was pacing, from our window, out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom at the back of the house, where she jumped into the bathtub and put her paws on the sill to look out that window. It was distracting. Our room is in the tower, so we have windows on three sides. Polly seemed determined to monitor both the front and the back of the house.
    I was propped up in bed, trying to plow through Godel, Escher, Bach and having an uphill fight with it. I was reading it in a book exchange with Jack. Once a month, we have to read a book the other selects. This tradition started many years ago. Our reading tastes are so different, and we were always telling the other that they simply had to read this great book we’d just finished. The monthly book exchange prevents blowups and nagging, and criticism of the other’s reading material.
    Jack had been wanting Godel, Escher, Bach on the book exchange for a long time, but I hadn’t found anything quite massive enough to make it a fair exchange. Finally we agreed that I’d do GEB if Jack would read all the Gregor Demarkian Holiday Mysteries by Jane Haddam. Jack wouldn’t admit that he was enjoying them, but he chuckled every now and then.
    I was actually finding parts of GEB interesting, but other parts were right over my head. The book is about music and math and art and how everything is connected together. Well, it’s hard to explain; you’d have to read it yourself. Polly’s toenails clicking in the bathtub didn’t help my concentration at all.
    “Honestly, Jack, what ails that dog?”
    He didn’t look up from his book. “Something outside. Probably a fox.”
    “A fox! Where’s McCavity?”
    Still not looking up, Jack gestured toward the chest of drawers. There was the old reprobate, with his feet tucked in, looking ready to stay there until he turned to stone. His eyes were at half-mast, and I could faintly hear his gurgly purr. So he was alright. I relaxed. I figured the barn cats knew enough to seek the stable rafters when predators roamed.
    Jack finally looked up from his book and asked with a puzzled frown, “Hon, what’s a ‘trophy wife’?”
    Bless the man! “That’s something rich businessmen collect.”
    “Huh?”
    “The term refers to the habit some wealthy businessmen have of shedding their first wives who