The Golden Goose Read Online Free Page A

lying up there dead on the floor of his bedroom, and one of us had better call his doctor to make it official.”
    There was another, this time stricken, silence.
    â€œWell,” said Cousin Peet, slithering off the sofa. “Anyone for dinner?”

3
    It was Prin, in the end, who called the doctor. It was almost always Prin, in the end, who did the things that needed doing. Uncle Slater’s late wife’s first husband’s family physician was an elderly curmudgeon named Dr. Horace Appleton, and Prin looked up his telephone number in the directory in the hall. Dr. Appleton answered the phone with a kind of yelp, like an incensed terrier, and she told him hurriedly that he must come over at once to see Uncle Slater. It was Dr. Appleton’s opinion, shrilly told, that Uncle Slater could probably wait without serious consequences until tomorrow, at which time he could come to the office. Prin replied that Uncle Slater could wait, all right, but that he couldn’t possibly come to the office, tonight or tomorrow or ever.
    â€œWhy can’t he?”
    â€œBecause he’s dead.”
    â€œHow do you know he’s dead?”
    â€œBecause he’s lying on the floor in his room,” Prin said, “and he isn’t breathing.”
    â€œIn that case,” Dr. Appleton said, “I’ll come right over.” And he did.
    It took him about twenty minutes to get there. In the meantime, Prin went back to the living room and sat quietly with Aunt Lallie and Cousin Twig, who had mixed himself a large dark highball in lieu of solid nourishment and was mumbling obscenities to the memory of his uncle. Then, unexpectedly, Cousin Peet and Brother Brady came back from the dining room, having decided that eating was not something they wanted to do after all, especially since they had to serve themselves in the face of Mrs. Dolan’s defection. Brother Brady headed for the bar.
    â€œPrin,” he scowled, mixing drinks for himself and Peet, “are you absolutely sure Uncle Slater is dead?”
    â€œI suppose an autopsy would establish it beyond question,” said Prin, “but, as a layman, I’m satisfied that he is, yes.”
    â€œI wonder,” said Aunt Lallie to the empty air. “I mean, if the rest of us ought to rely on your judgment, child, in a matter of such importance.”
    â€œThen don’t,” said Prin. “Anyone’s free to go upstairs and form his own judgment.”
    â€œTwig?” said Aunt Lallie. “Brady?”
    â€œNot me, thank you,” said Twig. “I’ve been avoiding dead people all my life. I don’t like dead people.” It was rather like hearing the Giant confide in Jack that he didn’t care for bread made from the bones of Englishmen, Prin thought. “You do it, Brady.”
    â€œWell,” said Brady. Then he brightened. “Sure. I’ll go. If Peet will go with me. What do you say, Peet?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOh, come on. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
    â€œOh, no?” said Peet. “Well, I’m not going.” And she took the drink from Brady’s hand and curled up on the sofa again, the velvet of her Capri pants threatening to split. Brady studied them hopefully.
    It was apparent to everyone that Uncle Slater, dead or alive, had nothing to do with Peet’s declining Brady’s invitation. Brady, looking sullenly dangerous again, went upstairs alone. He was back in remarkably short order, a little blue around the edges.
    â€œPrin was right,” he said, heading for the bar. “Uncle Slater is completely dead.” He laced his highball powerfully and threw his head back and drank like Thor trying to drain the sea.
    â€œCompletely dead?” said Peet. “You mean it’s possible to be incompletely dead?” In Peet’s primitive state of intelligence, she sometimes exercised a disconcerting logic. “I don’t believe you