My Gal Sunday Read Online Free Page B

send word to my neighbor that I won’t be accepting calls from anyone,” he said. “At this juncture, there seems to be little point in talking to anyone other than my lawyer.”
    A few minutes later, as Henry and Sunday were being hustled past the media, a Lexus pulled into the driveway next to them. The couple watched as a woman jumped from the car and, using the stir created by their departure as diversion, managed to get to the house undisturbed, where, using her own key, she entered immediately.
    “That has to be the housekeeper,” Sunday said, having noted that the woman, who appeared to be in her fifties, was dressed plainly and wore her hair in a coronet of braids. “She certainly looks the part, and besides, who else would have a key? Well, at least Tom won’t be alone.”
    “He must be paying her well,” Henry observed. “That car is expensive.”
    On the drive home, he told Sunday about the mysterious phone call from the countess in Palm Beach. She made no comment, but he could tell from the way she tilted her head to one side and puckered her forehead that she was both disturbed and deep in thought.
    The car they were riding in was a nondescript, eight-year-old Chevy, one of the specially equipped secondhand cars Henry kept available for their use, especially helpful in allowing them to avoid detection when they so desired. As always, they were accompanied by two Secret Service agents, one driving while the other rode shotgun. A thick glass divider separated the front seat from the back, allowing Henry and Sunday the freedom to talk without being overheard.
    Breaking what for her was an extended silence, Sunday said, “ Henry, there’s something wrong about this case. You could sense it from the accounts in the paper, but now, having talked to Tommy, I’m certain of it.”
    Henry nodded. “I agree completely. At first I thought that perhaps the details of the crime might be so gruesome that he had to deny them even to himself.” He paused, then shook his head. “But now I realize that this is not a question of denial. Tommy really doesn’t know what happened. And all of this is just so unlike him!” he exclaimed. “No matter what the provocation — threats of blackmail or whatever — I cannot accept that even confounded by the combination of a sleeping pill and a martini, Tommy could go so completely out of control as to have killed the woman! Just seeing him today made me realize how extraordinary all this is. You didn’t know him then, Sunday, but he was
devoted
to Constance. Yet when she died, his composure was remarkable. He suffered, yes, but he remained calm throughout the entire ordeal.” He paused, then shook his head again. “No, Tommy simply isn’t the kind of man who flips out, no matter what the provocation.”
    “Well, his composure may have been remarkable when his wife died, but then falling hook, line, and sinker for Arabella Young when Connie was barely cold in her grave does say something about the man, you’ll have to agree.”
    “Yes, but rebound perhaps? Or denial?”
    “Exactly,” Sunday replied. “Of course, sometimes people fall in love almost immediately after a great loss and it actually works out, but more often than not, it doesn’t.”
    “You’re probably right. The very fact that Tommy never married Arabella after actually giving her an engagement ring — what, nearly two years ago? — says to me that almost from the outset he must have known it was a mistake.”
    “Well, all of this took place before I came on the scene, of course,” Sunday mused, “but I did keep abreast of much of it through the tabloids, which at the time made a big fuss over how in love the staid secretary of state was with the flashy PR person only half his age. But then I remember seeing two photos of him run side by side, one showing him out in public, snuggling. Arabella, while the other was taken at his wife’s burial and obviously caught him at a moment when his