The Books of Fell Read Online Free

ditsy kid — a man who’d planned to drive down into another county to check in at his office just for something to do.
    Then I came along. Someone to talk to — never mind what I’d done to his Mitsubishi, this fellow needed someone to talk to.
    When I visited my grandfather at his nursing home, he’d always try to get me to stay another hour. He’d say things like, “Someday I’ll tell you what happened the first day your father ever walked a beat.” William the Conqueror might not be in my background, but there were a lot of cops.
    I’d ask my grandfather to tell me about it, and his eyes would light up. He’d say, “You want to hear about it
now?”
    But this man across from me was no relation. I couldn’t rise to the occasion and do him any favors.
    I kept thinking she’d called Quint Blade and he’d come running.
    I swallowed my Tab, chug-a-lug.
    “I have to go,” I said.
    “So soon?” Pingree said.
    “So soon?” my grandfather would always say. “When is your father coming, Johnny?”
    He’s not, Granddad. He had a heart attack, remember?
    Pingree got up when I did.
    “I’ll walk you out,” he said.

chapter 4
    The TV was on and my five-year-old sister was asleep on the rug in front of it, her paper doll and a bag of Chips Ahoy! beside her.
    “Wake up, Jazzy,” I said.
    “Is it tomorrow?”
    “No. It’s still tonight.”
    “What are you doing home?”
    “I got jilted.”
    “What’s jilted?”
    “Stood up. Keats went to the dance with someone else.”
    Jazzy sat up and rubbed her eyes. She checked to be sure the paper doll was there. She never made a move without the paper doll. She called the doll Georgette.
    “Is Mommy home?” she said.
    “No, Mommy doesn’t seem to be home,” I said. That teed me off, too. Our mother was supposed to be home by eight-thirty on Saturday nights. The store where she worked on Main Street closed at eight in the summer.
    I’d felt bad enough leaving Jazzy alone at seven-thirty, when I’d left to go to Adieu. Mom said she’d be all right by herself for forty-five minutes. Mrs. Fiedler was right next door.
    “I bet you didn’t have any dinner,” I said.
    “Georgette had fwogs’ legs,” she said, caressing the doll.
    “Say frogs,” I said. “You’re old enough now to say frog, not fwog.” Then I leaned down and patted her blond curls, to make up for snapping at her. “I’ll make you an omelet,” I said.
    “I don’t want an omelet. I want your beef Borgan.”
    “My beef Bourguignon takes five hours to cook,” I said. “I’ll make you a cheese-and-tomato omelet.”
    “With bacon,” Jazzy said.
    “All right, with bacon. But it’ll take longer.”
    I took off my white coat and undid my black silk tie.
    “Can Georgette have your red rose, Johnny?” Jazzy asked.
    “Tell her to help herself. I can’t use it.”
    “Did you have a fight with Keats?”
    “No, we didn’t fight. Her father doesn’t like me.”
    “I like you, Johnny.”
    “I know. I like you, too.”
    I went into the kitchen and started getting stuff out of the refrigerator.
    Jazzy came in after me in a few minutes, carrying Georgette and the two shoeboxes that contained Georgette’s wardrobe. Jazzy made all Georgette’s clothes. In one shoebox the clothes were shabby: torn dresses, sweaters with holes in them, and tattered shorts and slacks. In the other shoebox there were short dresses, long dresses, hats, and fancy high-heeled shoes. Those clothes in that shoebox were trimmed with lace, decorated with real, tiny buttons, and colored with the brightest shades in Jazzy’s crayon collection.
    Jazzy’s game was to have Georgette discover that her real parents were millionaires. She would dress Georgette in her poor clothes and serve her macaroni, or shredded wheat, or a few raisins. Then Georgette’s real family would come by to claim her, and she’d be dressed in her other clothes and sit down to “fwogs”‘ legs or champagne and caviar.
    When we lived