The Face[脸]
| 载入中... |
ABOVE THE CITY, AS THE RETREATING DAY shed its grizzled beard in wet ravelings of mist and drab drizzles, the hard face of night had not quite yet appeared.
On a west-side street of art galleries, of high-end shops, of restaurants in which elitist attitude was served more efficiently than the food, Ethan tucked the Expedition tight up against a red curb, two wheels in a flooded gutter, confident that the parking patrol issued tickets far less enthusiastically in foul weather than in fair.
The Businesses in this neighborhood, seeking a sophisticated and exclusive clientele, stood behind shop fronts without flash, relying on subdued signage. Mere money shouts; wealth whispers.
The retail shops were not yet closed, and most restaurants were an hour away from opening their doors. Early lamplight gilded the dripping leaves of curbside trees and transformed the wet sidewalk into a path paved with pirates’ treasure.
Without umbrella, Ethan moved in the shelter of shop awnings, all of which were tan or forest-green, silver or black, except for that in front of Forever Roses, which was a deep coral-pink.
The florist’s shop might as aptly have been named Only Roses, for [147] beyond the glass doors of the coolers that lined the big front room, no flowers other than roses could be seen, along with supplies of cut ferns and other greenery that were used to soften bright bouquets and arrangements.
Because of Hannah’s gardening interests, now even five years after she had been laid to rest under mounded roses, Ethan could identify many of the varieties in the coolers.
Here was a rose so dark red that it almost appeared to be black, with petals that looked like velvet, earning its name: Black Magic.
And here, the John F. Kennedy rose: white petals so thick and glossy that they resembled sculpted wax.
The Charlotte Armstrong: large, fragrant, deep pink blooms. The Jardins de Bagatelle, the Rio Samba, the Paul McCartney rose, the Auguste Renoir, the Barbara Bush, the Voodoo, and the Bride’s Dream.
Behind the customer counter stood an exceptional rose who looked as Hannah might have looked had she lived to be sixty. Thick salt-and-pepper hair cut short and shaggy. Large dark eyes brimming with life and delight. Time had not faded this woman’s beauty, but had enriched it with a patina of experience.
Reading the name tag on the clerk’s blouse, Ethan said, “Rowena, most of what I see in these coolers are hybrid tea varieties. Do you also like climbing roses?”
“Oh, yes, all kinds of roses,” Rowena said, her voice musical and warm. “But we seldom use climbing roses. Varieties with longer stems work better in arrangements.”
He introduced himself and, as was his habit in such situations, explained that he’d once been a homicide detective but recently had gone to work as an assistant to a high-profile celebrity.
Los Angeles and environs were acrawl with poseurs and frauds who claimed association with the rich and famous. Yet even those who had been made cynical by this city of deception nevertheless believed what Ethan told them, or pretended that they did.
[148] Hannah had said that people trusted him easily because combined in him were the quiet steely strength of Dirty Harry Callahan and the earnest innocence of Huck Finn. That, he had replied, was a movie he never wanted to see.
Rowena, whether responding to the Harry-Huck of him or to other qualities, seemed to accept Ethan for who and what he claimed to be.
“If I guess your favorite variety of climbing rose,” he said, “will you answer a few questions about a customer you served earlier this afternoon?”
“Is this police or celebrity Business?”
“Both.”
“Oh, delicious. I love running a rose shop, but there’s more fragrance than excitement in it. Make your guess.”
Because in Rowena he saw Hannah as she might have been at sixty, he spoke the name of the climbing rose that his lost wife had loved best: “Saint Joseph’s Coat.”
Rowena seemed genuinely surprised and pleased. “That’s exactly right! You put Sherlock to shame.”
“Now your half of the bargain,” Ethan said, leaning with both arms on the counter. “This afternoon a man came in here and bought a bouquet of Broadway roses.”
The dazzling golden-red blooms on Hannah’s grave had been wrapped in a cone of stiff cellophane. Instead of Scotch tape or staples, a series of six peel-and-press stickers had been applied to seal cellophane to cellophane and thus ensure that the cone kept its shape. Each fancy foil sticker bore the name and address of Forever Roses.
“We had just two dozen,” Rowena said, “and he took them all.”
“You remember him then?”
“Oh, yes. He was ... quite memorable.”
“Would you describe him for me?”
“Tall, athletic but a bit on the thin side, wearing an exquisite gray suit.”
[149] Duncan Whistler owned uncounted fine suits, all custom-tailored at great cost.
“He was a handsome man,” Rowena continued, “but terribly pale, as though he hadn’t seen the sun in months.”
Comatose for twelve weeks, Dunny had developed a hospital pallor subsequently seasoned by at least an hour of morgue time.
“He had the most magnetic gray eyes,” Rowena said, “with flecks of green. Beautiful.”
She had given a perfect description of Dunny’s eyes.
“He said that he wanted the roses for a special woman.”
At her funeral, Dunny had seen the Broadway roses.
Rowena smiled. “He said an old friend would be around before long, asking what kind of roses he’d bought. I gather you’re in competition for the same girl.”
Neither the winter day outside nor the cool air here in the flower shop was responsible for the chill that might have rattled Ethan’s teeth if he hadn’t clenched them.
He suddenly realized that Rowena’s smile had a curious tilt, as though tempered by uncertainty or uneasiness.
When she recognized how deeply her revelation troubled him, her tentative smile faltered, vanished.
“He was a strange man,” she said.
“Did he say anything else?”
Rowena broke eye contact and looked toward the windows at the front of the shop, as though expecting to see someone familiar—and unwelcome—at the door.
Ethan gave her an opportunity to consider her words, and at last she spoke: “He said you think he’s dead.”
Images swelled to the foreground of memory: the empty gurney and the tangled shroud in the hospital morgue; the elusive phantom in the steam-blurred bathroom mirror; the lizard on the driveway, struggling to ascend in spite of its broken back, confronted by a cruel [150] degree of incline and by sluicing water as cold and insistent as the flow of time. ...
“He said you think he’s dead,” Rowena repeated, shifting her gaze from the shop door to Ethan once more. “And he said I should tell you that you’re right.”
<< PrevPage [21] [22] [23] [24] [25] [26] [27] [28] [29] [30] ... NextPage >>
推荐阅读
载入中...