Wife or Death Read Online Free

the two cars parked in the Wyatts’ driveway. The two couples dashed for the protection of the porch.
    The Wyatt house was a modest old two-story frame on a hill overlooking the river. Ridgemore occupied hills and valleys; it was an up-and-down town, with hardly a street outside the business district which ran on the level.
    Norman Wyatt was Ridgemore’s local-boy-who-made-good. One of the nation’s most successful TV producers, his legal residence was Hollywood; but he still hung on to his old family home in Ridgemore. His swank hunting lodge in the mountains high above the town was a sort of toe-scuffing advertisement of his fame.
    The Wyatts visited Ridgemore about three times a year. Hunting lodge aside, they were the exception that proved the Ridgemore rule of classlessness. Norm Wyatt, looking older than his forty years, was a soft-bellied bear of a man who loved to entertain the old friends of his Ridgemore youth; he had never outgrown his beginnings. His wife Ardis, a year or two his senior, came from another world. She was a handsome, imperious woman with the tailored ease of manner that only a lifetime of unlimited means could have produced—gracious, without airs, equally at home in jeans on a horse or at a society soiree in a Givenchy gown. Ardis Wyatt was the daughter of Gerald Trevor, multimillionaire president and chairman of the board of Trevor-United Studios, of which Norman Wyatt was executive vice-president.
    Wyatt, still in his Henry VIII costume, greeted the Dentons and Guests at the door.
    â€œYou’re the first.” He waved them into the old Wyatt living room, grinning his warm, homely grin.
    Ardis Wyatt was made up as Queen Elizabeth I; the costume was startlingly suited to her. “Hi,” she said. “You girls are conscripted. Off to the kitchen!” And Angel and Corinne trotted across the dining room after their queenly hostess to help set up the buffet. It was characteristic of Ardis that at her informal get-togethers—in Ridgemore—she did most of her own work.
    As the three women disappeared behind the swinging kitchen door, a tall, trim, courtly-looking, white-haired man in his late sixties came down the stairs from the upper floor. He wore the costume of a Confederate general.
    Norm Wyatt said, “You fellows know my father-in-law, don’t you?”
    â€œOh, yes,” Jim Denton said.
    â€œWe met last year at the club, Mr. Trevor,” George Guest said. “George Guest?”
    â€œOf course.” Trevor obviously did not remember him. “It’s nice to see you both again.”
    â€œEnjoy the ball, Mr. Trevor?” Denton asked, just to say something.
    â€œVery much—Jim, isn’t it?—except that I made the mistake of wearing a costume requiring a dress-sword. I spent most of the evening tripping over it. Just shed it upstairs.”
    â€œI know what you mean.” Denton unbuckled his own sword and stood it in a corner.
    â€œGerald always has himself a time when there are gals around,” Wyatt chuckled. “Regular old rip. What’ll you have to drink?”
    Denton and George Guest both said bourbon and soda, Trevor, Scotch on the rocks. They gathered at the bar as Norman Wyatt went behind it to fix the drinks.
    â€œYou’re becoming almost a resident, Mr. Trevor,” Denton remarked. “Isn’t this your third visit this year?”
    â€œI’ve got in the habit of tagging along with Ardis and Norman whenever I can,” the tycoon said. “Like most obsolete old nuisances.”
    â€œDon’t believe a word of it,” his son-in-law said. “We practically have to kidnap him to keep him out of the clutches of those Hollywood babes. Here we can keep an eye on him.”
    Trevor smiled his reserved smile. “I’m afraid I’m beyond the age when you have to worry about romantic involvements, Norman.”
    Wyatt served the three men and started to mix