A Thorn in the Bush Read Online Free Page B

much.”
    “You mean the portrait of Paulita,” sad Mrs. Ross.
    “No, Señora.” Serena crossed to the sink, began rinsing tomatoes in a bowl of water. She spoke over her shoulder: “This is another one. This is probably the one Don Jaime is buying.”
    “Buying?” Mrs. Ross stared at Serena’s brown-clad back, the two dark braids jerking like animated bell-pulls.
    “Yes. María Carlotta says that Don Jaime buys one of the paintings, but she has not seen it. The S eñor Hoblitt keeps it in the locked box.”
    The mystery of this caught Mrs. Ross’s interest. And, for some reason, it disquieted her. She thought: What did that fool Jaime say to Hoblitt?
    She said: “Did not María Carlotta overhear their conversation?”
    “Not very much of it, Señora.” Serena crossed to the stove with an earthen bowl which she sat on a rear burner. “The Señor Hoblitt ordered María Carlotta from the house, although he had not completed sorting his fruit. She heard them laughing, however, as she left.” Serena lowered her voice, peered at Mrs. Ross from slitted eyes. “They were discussing espionage! María Carlotta heard the word, and that is all she cares to say about it.”
    Espionage? Mrs. Ross shook her head sharply. She felt that the sense of the conversation had veered off into a region where she could not follow.
    “Espionage!” repeated Serena. She returned to the sink for another bowl.
    Mrs. Ross felt an unexplainable tightness in her throat, wondered if she was coming down with one of the recurrent tropic maladies that she wrote off as the price of the sunshine.
    Serena shuffled back to the stove, poured meat stock into the earthen pot, turned up the gas flame, faced Mrs. Ross. The Aztec features looked flat and avid. “The Señor Hoblitt has given to María Carlotta two positively new pairs of nylons,” she said. She looked accusingly at her employer, who only released nylons when they had runs and must be repaired by the girl in the Tienda Moderna at a cost of fifty centavos each.
    Mrs. Ross pulled at her lower lip. She was thinking about Don Jaime’s visit to Hoblitt. Two hours together! And not the first time, evidently. Then: Espionage?
    Serena’s last announcement registered slowly, expanding like a balloon until it burst on Mrs. Ross’s consciousness: Two pairs of new nylons! A bribe!
    Espionage! It occurred to Mrs. Ross that the kitchen-maid grapevine in San Juan worked in two directions.
    “Has the Señor Hoblitt been asking questions about me?” she demanded.
    Serena’s expression drifted into bland vacuity. “I cannot say, Señora. Maybe yes, maybe no.”
    Even if she did know she wouldn’t tell me! thought Mrs. Ross. She realized that she had violated a basic rule of the grapevine: one did not suggest even remotely that one’s own servant revealed private confidences.
    Serena turned away, fussed with the stove.
    Mrs. Ross stared at the woman’s implacable back. At least once a day Serena extinguished the gas flame by trying to coax more heat out of it by fanning it like a charcoal fire. The stupid!
    “I’m not feeling well,” said Mrs. Ross. “I’ll just have some soup. You may serve me in the bedroom.”
    She left before Serena could begin detailing all the deaths from various incurable blights that had stricken San Juan the previous month.
    And it wouldn’t do a bit of good to question Don Jaime, Mrs. Ross thought as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. He’s close up just like Serena. When you get right down to it, they’re all alike! Always gossiping! No one’s safe from it!
    The bedroom looked shadowy and inviting with all the blinds pulled. Thin strips of slatted light wavered across the bedspread, climbed up the tall mahogany ropero where she kept her clothes on gringo hangers. The bedspread was one Paulita had made: blue herons cross-stitched on a white background.
    Mrs. Ross sat on the edge of the bed, rubbed a hand across the rough surface beside her. The sore throat