The Blood Red Indian Summer Read Online Free PDF Page B

liked to work on her free-form paintings in there. Fling paint, in other words. It was all over the windows, walls and floors. Think Jackson Pollack. Think projectile vomiting.
    “It’s a beautiful day, is it not, Mitch?” Luanne exclaimed, petting the black cat that was sprawled on the kitchen table.
    “Yes, it certainly is,” agreed Mitch, who was starting to feel light-headed. It wasn’t just their heavy, fruity perfume. It smelled awful in there, as if something had died in one of the cupboards. He deposited the cartons of provisions on the counter. The canned goods, cereal and bread were courtesy of the Food Pantry. He’d bought the milk, eggs and orange juice at the A&P with his own money. Not that they knew. There was no reason for them to know.
    “This is so kind of you, Mitch,” Lila said in that trembly voice of hers that always reminded him of Katherine Hepburn in Stage Door . He kept expecting her to come out with: “The calla lilies are in bloom again. ”
    “My pleasure,” he said, edging over toward an open window for some fresh air. From there he could see their stone patio and the two acres or so of lawn that he’d mowed for them last week. Beyond the lawn there was a sliver of beach at the water’s edge. And an incredible panoramic view. On a clear day you could see Long Island. A dense thicket of trees stood between the Joshuas and their new neighbor. “How is Winston doing this morning?”
    “Fine and dandy,” Luanne replied. “I just shaved him with that nice Norelco you picked up for us. You’re so clever.” A decline in personal hygiene was another symptom of Winston’s dementia. The sisters had been unable to shave him with a blade because he refused to sit still. “Right now he’s having a good soak in a hot tub. Or I should say a warm tub. Our furnace is on its last legs. Assuming, that is, furnaces have legs.”
    “Ours does. It most certainly sits on legs.” Lila glanced at him hesitantly. “Mitch, I hate to bother you but have you noticed a slight odor?”
    “Why, no, I haven’t.”
    “That silly sink of ours is backed up again. Could you?…”
    Mitch had a look. And a whiff. The sink had two inches of fetid brown water in it. “Where do you keep your plunger?”
    “In the cupboard under the sink,” Luanne said.
    He could hear all sorts of scurrying around in there as he searched for the plunger, shuddering inwardly. There was no telling what lived under there. Or how sharp its teeth were. He took the plunger to the clogged drain and brought up a fist-sized clump of either stringy vegetable matter, hair or, possibly, the earthly remains of a drowned mouse. He didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. But that black cat was watching him from the kitchen table with keen interest. Mitch bagged it—the clump, not the cat—and took it out to the trash. Then he ran the faucet for a minute to make sure the drain was clear.
    He was just about to take off when he heard a loud thud upstairs.
    “Ah, that’ll be Winston,” Luanne said. “Mitch, would you mind lending us your strong back? He’s a bit heavy for us to hoist out of the tub.”
    There were at least eight bedrooms on the second floor. The bath that adjoined Winston’s room was right at the top of the stairs.
    He was sitting in an old claw-footed tub calmly soaking away. Winston was a big man, well over six feet tall. He’d rowed at Princeton and still had the broad shoulders to prove it. But the rest of him resembled a sagging old water buffalo. His skin hung from him in loose, billowing folds. Winston’s hair, what little there was of it, was white. So was his handlebar moustache, which Mitch noticed looked kind of ratty and uneven.
    Luanne noticed it, too. “Winnie, have you been chewing on our moustache again?”
    “I’d rather chew on yours,” he replied, his blue eyes twinkling at her.
    “Now don’t you be naughty, dear.”
    “What’s that man doing in my bathroom, Lorelei?”
    “I’m Luanne.