The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗
there? I’ve never been.”
“Where are your packages?”
“I haven’t bought anything yet.”
I met her gaze. She looked away. Now certain, I said, “You were following me.”
“I wasn’t!”
But she was. It was in her tone of voice, in her facial expression. If she wasn’t following
me, she was sure guilty about something.
“Jean,” I said, “come off it. You’ve got a character in your book who looks like me and
talks like me and dresses like me. Tuesday you had Avery Oxford following someone to the
Biltmore Hotel. That’s a hefty coincidence. Next week are we going to read about Avery
having lunch at Johnny Rocket’s and chasing someone through the Paseo?”
She shook her head, the black curls bouncing. She looked like a kid caught stealing the
shoes off a rival’s Barbie. “We keep getting rejected,” she said disconsolately. “Agents,
editors, even the writing group doesn’t like our book.”
I bit my lip.
She raised her eyes to mine. “I only thought…everyone you talk to, agents or
publishers, they all want you to have a platform, and I thought…” she swallowed hard. “I
thought our platform could be that our gay sleuth’s adventures are based on the real-life
adventures of…you.”
My jaw dropped. “Are you out of your mind?” I got out at last.
“But you don’t understand, Adrien –”
“You’re right.”
“This kind of thing is so big right now, the novelization of people’s real-life
adventures.”
If she said “real-life adventures” one more time, I was going to put her under the next
passing bus.
“Jean…”
“Sherlock Holmes’s adventures were inspired by a Dr. Joseph Bell. And did you know
there actually was a Gidget? All those movies and TV shows were based on the real-life
ad –”
“Jean.”
She stopped, swallowing hard.
“Jean, you can’t follow me around. I don’t want you to write a roman a clef based on
my life. Or what you imagine is my life.”
“But maybe I could help you,” she said eagerly. “I know you’re working a case. You’re
trying to find out if Angus did kill those other students, aren’t you?”
I had this sudden vision of how Jake must have felt when I kept insisting on helping
him.
“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m leaving this to the police. You need to do the same.”
She looked away from me. “Okay.”
“I’m serious, Jean. This stuff is too dangerous.”
“Okay.”
I studied her mutinous profile.
“Okay,” I said. “But if I catch you following me again, I’m telling Ted.”
I had one fleeting look at her outraged expression before she stalked away down the
street. I sighed and headed back for the shop.
The rest of the day passed in sales receipts and register rings.
At last I sat down at my desk, thumbed through my Rolodex, and removed the card the
Dragonwyck proprietress had given me.
“A specialist,” she had said.
Would it do any harm to call?
I contemplated the silver numerals. The area code was 661. What was that, Bakersfield?
Wasco? I didn’t think of Bakersfield as being a spiritual center.
I dialed the number, tried to imagine myself explaining my dilemma.
On the second ring, the phone picked up. A low, rather melodious voice spoke.
“Hello.”
Hello? I was expecting a “Merry Meet,” at the very least.
“Uh, hi. I got your number from the…ladies at Dragonwyck.”
“Yes?”
I couldn’t tell if that untroubled voice was male or female. I guess it didn’t really
matter.
I took a deep breath. “I’m having this problem with…uh…well, it has to do with a
demon. I was wondering if I could make an appointment?”
Chapter Twenty-two
Selene Wolfe lived in Palmdale.
To be exact, she lived in the Angeles National Forest on the Palmdale side of the San
Gabriel Mountains. The light was failing by the time I left Pasadena. I did not look forward
to the night’s return drive, dipping and winding through miles and miles of dense chaparral
that slowly gave way to pine-studded peaks.
The traffic was surprisingly heavy, cars whipping around the narrow road with scant
regard for the tumbling slopes below. For a time, I found myself one of a long line of cars
trapped behind a yellow Celica with the bumper sticker VISUALIZE WORLD PEACE.
I missed the turnoff and had to find a safe place to pull over, then double back. By the
time I found the stone cairn mailbox with the correct house number, it was dark, and I was
late.
The long dirt road had been graded, but that was the sole sign of civilization as I rolled
cautiously along, the headlights of the Forester occasionally pinpointing gleaming eyes in the
darkness.
At last I saw lights. I pulled into the front yard of a small stone cabin. I parked and got
out. Wood smoke drifted from the chimney. The night air was spicy with pines.
An old-fashioned lantern hung above the door. A dog barked from inside the cabin.
I knocked. Moments later the door opened. The woman who answered my knock was
taller than I, lean, with a riot of salt and pepper hair. She wore jeans and a flannel shirt; she
was barefoot despite the cold. A three-legged dog stood beside her, still muttering under its
breath.
“Blessed be,” she said in that sexless, but soothing voice.
“Hi. I’m Adrien English.”
She moved aside. I stepped into a rustic, but comfortable-looking cabin. Nothing
particularly weird or witchy about it. If there was a cauldron bubbling, it was being used for
chicken soup.
“Would you like tea?” Selene Wolfe asked.
“Thanks. Yes.”
She gestured for me to sit at the table, and I did while she went into the kitchen. The
three-legged dog planted himself between the two rooms, clearly determined to keep an eye
on me.
One wall had been given over to bookshelves: Frazier’s Golden Bough, Buckland’s
Complete Book of Witchcraft, the Farrars’ Witches’ Bible. All the woo-woo classics as well as
a lot of books on psychology and sociology. There were cheerful sprigged curtains covering
the windows, thick woven rugs covering the stone floor. Fur brushed against my ankle. I
