Ричард Деминг - She’ll Hate Me Tomorrow

“The taxi drivers in this town make sure casino patrons get home safely,” Ross told her. “It’s part of the system. But if you prefer a personal escort, I’d be glad to drive you home.”

“I’d feel safer, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. You ready to leave now?”

“Any time you’re ready.”

Calling over his head croupier, Ross gave him instructions about closing up. Then he escorted Christine to the cloakroom, got her evening wrap from Stella and held it for her. As they stepped onto the elevator, Ross glanced back. Stella threw him a bright, brittle smile which exposed all of her small white teeth. The gambler noted that they were clamped tightly together.

As they climbed into Ross’ Lincoln, he asked, “Where are you staying?”

“I’ve rented a beach cottage at Stowe Point.”

Stowe Point was on Muskie Lake, at the north edge of town. He took Lakeview Drive to Halfway Junction, then turned off the main road onto the gravel road which circled the small lake.

Stowe Point was about a mile and a half from the highway and consisted of some two dozen rental cottages strung along the water’s edge on both sides of the narrow point. During the summer season it was a pretty populous place, but as it was now mid-September, few of the cottages were occupied. There was a single light some hundred yards beyond Christine’s cottage, on their side of the point, another they could barely see about a quarter mile away on the opposite side of the point. Otherwise all the cottages within their range of vision seemed to be vacant.

When Christine pointed out her cottage, Ross parked alongside it, got out, rounded the car and held open the door for her.

As she climbed out and probed in her bag for a key, she said, “I haven’t any Scotch, but I can give you some bourbon if you’d like to come in.”

“I drink rather sparingly,” Ross said. “I’ll settle for a cigarette while you have a nightcap.”

Keying open the door, she led him into a large room furnished with rustic furniture padded with tied-on cushions. In one corner of the room, a single low-watt bulb glowed in a lamp made from a fancy liquor bottle. By its light Ross could dimly make out an open door which seemed to lead to a kitchen, and another closed door which he guessed was to the bedroom. The cottage seemed to contain only three rooms.

As Ross closed the entrance door behind him, Christine said, “The liquor’s in the cabinet next to the kitchen sink, if you’d like to pour me a drink while I shed my wrap. The wall switch is to the right of the kitchen door. If you change your mind, mix yourself a drink, too.”

She crossed to the closed door, opened it, switched on the overhead light, and smiled back at him before closing the door behind her. Ross moved into the kitchen, found the wall switch and flicked it upward. A light over the sink went on.

It was an old-fashioned kitchen with painted wooden cupboards and waist-high wooden wainscoting around the walls, but it was furnished with all modern conveniences, including an electric stove and a purring refrigerator.

He found a three-quarters-full bottle of bourbon where she had told him it would be, located a shot-glass and water tumbler in another cabinet and set them on the sink. He got some ice cubes from the refrigerator, made a glass of ice water and carried it, the bottle and shot-glass into the front room. Setting them on an unfinished wooden cocktail table in front of the rustic sofa, he poured the shot-glass full and set the bottle next to it. Then he seated himself, lit a cigarette and waited.

Five minutes passed. When his cigarette got down to a stub, he walked over to the wide fireplace and tossed it into the cold ashes there. Moodily he contemplated the moose head mounted over the mantel and the moose stared back at him sightlessly from its glass eyes.

There was a small envelope lying on the mantel. Idly he moved closer to look at it. The light flowing from the kitchen doorway supplemented the dim corner lamp enough for him to see that it was an airline ticket envelope.

Ross did not make a habit of prying into others’ personal business. If it had been a letter, he wouldn’t have thought of opening it. But he figured there was nothing very personal about an airline ticket. He lifted the envelope and drew out the ticket with the sole purpose of seeing on what date Christine planned to fly back to Kansas City.

The ticket didn’t tell him, because the return date was left open. But it told him something else. The woman who called herself Christine Franklin hadn’t come from Kansas City. The ticket was a round trip from Chicago.

Replacing the ticket in its envelope, he returned the envelope to the mantle and went back to the divan. Seating himself, he thoughtfully regarded the closed bedroom door.

Another five minutes passed before the door finally opened and Christine appeared. She had shed considerably more than her evening wrap. She wore a dark blue negligée of some filmy material which dimly showed the whiteness of her body beneath it. She had left the bedroom overhead light on, and it silhouetted her lush figure as though she were stark naked. He could clearly see the smooth roundness of her full hips and the tapered length of perfectly formed legs.

She stood for a few moments, smiling at him, giving him time for a thorough study of her silhouette before slowly swaying toward him on slippered feet. Sinking onto the cushion next to him, she picked up the shot-glass and tossed off its contents. Without touching the water chaser, she leaned back and looked up a him with a mixture of challenge and anticipation in her eyes.

Without a word Ross rose and walked into the bedroom. There were two doors, one leading into a closet, the other into a bathroom. After glancing into both and finding them empty, he checked the single bedroom window. It was locked shut.

Leaving the bedroom, he circled into the kitchen and checked a small pantry he had not previously looked into. The single window there was also closed and locked.

There were two windows in the front room, one on either side of the door. When he pulled back the drapes, he discovered both were closed and locked. Sliding home the bolt on the front door, he returned to the sofa and seated himself.

Christine was staring at him in astonishment. “What was all that?”

“Just checking to make sure your husband hadn’t planted a photographer to get divorce evidence,” he said easily.

Her eyes widened. “Silly. He’s in Kansas City.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I’m just overcautious.”

She leaned forward to pick up the bourbon bottle and pour herself another shot. The movement caused her negligée to part at the top and one plump, red-tipped breast popped into view. When she raised the glass to drink, the negligée parted even farther, exposing her clear to the waist. She set down the empty glass and gave him a dreamy smile, seemingly unaware that both breasts were totally bare.

Ross contemplated her broodingly. His first thought after examining the airline ticket was that he had been led into some kind of a trap. But obviously he hadn’t been. He was satisfied that no one was concealed in the cottage; that no one was planning to jump him at the most defenseless moment that a man can reach; and he was also satisfied that no one could break into the cottage without making enough noise to give him time to extricate himself from even the most complicated entanglement and get a gun in his hand.

It seemed that the woman’s motive in luring him to the cottage had been wholly romantic, after all, and that he was being over suspicious. It was quite possible that Christine had relatives in Chicago, or even a lover, and had merely made a side trip there from Kansas City.