The Name of the Game Was Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

Neiman’s?”
    “No, in my door,” I said, “and I don’t really think it’s an antique, because doesn’t something have to be one hundred years old before it’s called an antique?” Trying to make polite conversation, I continued. “One of my mother’s friends has an antiques store, and she finds some of the most unbelievable things in …”
    I stopped talking because they hadn’t been listening and had gone back to their conversations. I even lost Aunt Thea as Julia put an arm around her shoulders, drew her into the semicircle she’d created with Alex and Laura, and said, “Thea, you must hear about the fantastic charity ball that our dear, generous Alex is underwriting.”
    I wasn’t interested in Alex Chambers’s charity ball, so I wandered away from the groups and stood alone, watching them. People-watching is good practice for anyone who wants to be a writer, according to my writers’ magazines.
    Buck Thompson’s face was familiar. It would be to anyone who watched a pro football game on television. Hewas huge and beefy, his face tinged dark red like a medium rare steak. His hair was brown, thick, and unruly. It was Buck’s own hair, not a toupee, so I’d have to tell Dad his guess was wrong. Buck’s movements were overlarge and expansive. As he spoke with Senator Maggio, Buck just missed knocking a flower arrangement off a nearby table.
    I’d seen Senator Maggio’s face in the newspapers. Because he was round and bald I never thought he looked like a senator ought to look—especially one who’s being considered as a possible presidential candidate. But he was well groomed. He wore a dark blue suit made out of some silky fabric, and he carried his head high. I wondered if he’d ever had a P.E. teacher like Mrs. Tribble in ninth grade, who kept saying, “For good posture, pretend there’s a string at the top of your head, girls, and it’s pulling, pulling, pulling you upward.”
    A laugh tinkled like broken glass, and I turned toward the sound. Laura, in a long, plain gown of deep blue silk, her hair brushed out in a golden glow, looked softer, younger, and prettier in the candlelight. Again she laughed, but the brittle sound told me that she was every bit as wary and nervous as she had been earlier.
    Julia had dressed like a twenty-year-old model in kelly green satin, with a skirt hem high above her knees and a low-scooped neckline. Her hair was dyed red, and she wore layers of makeup. If Darlene were here, she’d agree with me that it didn’t help Julia Bryant to try to look young. She had to be at least fifty. “No. What you heard was wrong. I’m just an old-fashioned girl,” she was saying. “I’m not the least bit mechanical-minded and hate having to use computers.”
    Alex Chambers smiled from one woman to the other. “You should try computerizing designs,” he said. He was tall and slender, with wisps of dark hair and large brown eyes which blinked a lot when he wasn’t squinting. I bet he wore glasses when no one was around. He had on tight slacks with a twisted rope holding them up, instead of a belt, and a silk shirt the color of whipped cream. The shirt was buttoned only halfway up, but the opening was filled with a knotted, bright, multicolored scarf.
    People-watching was interesting for only so long. I wandered over to a large round table in a nearby corner, which was cluttered with dozens of photographs. In each of them Augustus Trevor—mostly young or middle-aged—was buddy-buddy with someone who looked important and official. I recognized Prince Rainier of Monaco and the Shah of Iran, but the others were unfamiliar.
    As I picked up an ornate silver frame, Mrs. Engstrom appeared beside me. She carried a small tray of canapes, but she seemed more interested in the photo in my hand. “That’s Mr. Trevor with the late King George the Sixth of England,” she said. With her free hand she pointed to one photo after another. “That’s King Juan Carlos of Spain, the