Venom and the River Read Online Free PDF Page A

around the room. “The desk,” she whispered. “The big brown chair.” She pointed toward the kitchen. “The stove where Dr. Grace cooked Maud’s favorite pudding on winter nights.” She rose and stumbled toward the fireplace. Her fingers stroked the blue vase and then floated along the mantel. She gripped the scarred and notched wood and swooned. Suddenly she stiffened, her expression curdled, a fist landed on her hip. She walked toward the Matisse copy. “ That’s the red lady?” she murmured. “How disappointing.” She shrugged, looked around the room, and her dreamy happy smile reappeared.
    “Mrs. Wickham,” Leigh said, “time to go.”
    Peach ignored her. She picked up her purple handbag and began riffling the contents. She pulled out a camera and started taking pictures. She snapped quickly, turning in a circle, hitting the shutter release with each step.
    Before she could get out of the way, Leigh was caught in a few of the shots. “Please, stop.”
    Peach’s fingers tapped away, catching Leigh several more times. “I need to share this with the world! Now, move!”
    “Stop taking pictures!” Leigh lunged for the camera, but Peach turned and hurried into the kitchen, her finger pressing down repeatedly on the silent shutter release.
    She had to get the film. She couldn’t let photos get out, not if she wanted to keep this job. It had been years since her face was all over the news, but she still didn’t dare risk it.
    Peach noticed a yellow spoon rest on the range. She gasped, set the camera down, picked up the spoon rest, and cradled it in both hands. Leigh grabbed the camera. She hit the menu button just as Peach began pounding on her shoulder.
    “Give it to me!”
    Leigh took a breath. “I’ll give it back, but please, at least erase the ones with me. I need to see you do that.”
    Peach grabbed the camera. She talked under her breath as she hit buttons. “Here,” she said, holding it out so Leigh could see the view screen. “Watch.”
    Picture erased.
    “There were more,” Leigh said.
    Peach made a noise, but erased five others. “Why so phobic? It’s not like I’d use any that had you in them.”
    “It’s not just that. This isn’t my house and I shouldn’t have let you take any. Time to go, Mrs. Wickham.”
    Peach Wickham looked at Leigh through narrowed, considering eyes. “That bitch Lanier got to you, didn’t she? She was in here first, I bet. Did you let her take pictures?”
    “I don’t know a Lanier, bitchy or otherwise. Once more, Mrs. Wickham: Please leave.”
    Peach put the camera back in her bag and smoothed her skirt. “I won’t hold this reception against you,” she said. “I’m still good for the repairs on your car.”
    “I’ll be in touch about that.”
    As Peach pushed open the door she caught her breath. “Oh!” she murmured. Her hand ran up the scarred door jamb, and then just before she exited, Peach Wickham leaned forward and kissed the wood.

5.
    Leigh didn’t have to work side by side with the men who hired her to ghostwrite their books, but she’d realized early on that it was easier to do so and well worth the trouble and discomfort of being a house guest or resident of a furnished room in a strange town. Proximity was essential for making her employers succumb to the flattery of her attention, which in turn was essential for coaxing out the real stories, honest rumination, secrets, and desires that sometimes surprised even their owners.
    Not that the books she produced included much of that. The end product was always the story that families, friends, colleagues, and sycophants wanted and applauded and not the one they feared. But she always knew what she was leaving out, and that gave spirit and voice to the books she did write. So she put up with the small rooms in small towns that were available for short-term rental. Put up with or turned a blind eye to the grime-coated miniblinds, food-crusted refrigerators, stained bathtubs and