Cherringham--Playing Dead Read Online Free Page B

walking out to the still-chilly air, and the challenge of getting her Rav-4 out to the road.

5. A Chat with Ambrose Goode
    Jack laughed, sitting in his parked Sprite as a light rain began to fall.
    “He wants you to be the maid ?”
    Sarah was still laughing as well. “Yes. If only to get me to stop asking about the accidents.”
    He paused. Rain spatters hit the windscreen noisily. “You should do it.”
    “Jack — I’m hardly an actor.”
    “It could be fun, and besides, you see how your mother’s worried. She’ll feel better, you there.”
    “A maid?”
    “You’ll do great. Can’t wait for the opening night.”
    “Hmm. Maybe I should remind him they need a replacement bobby too?”
    “No way. With my accent?”
    “And you’re just going to pop in on Ambrose Goode?”
    Jack looked at the cottage across the street.
    Tiny, almost hobbit-like in size, with an untended spot of garden outside.
    “Figured I’d surprise him. As former director of the company’s shows, he might have a few choice words to say.”
    “Always seemed like a sweet man, Jack — but he is getting on.”
    “I hear you. I’ll be gentle. Dinner at The Old Pig this evening?”
    “Sure. Daniel is at his friend’s tonight, and Chloe kind of comes and goes as she wants these days. She’s involved in the school show, excerpts from Anything Goes .”
    “Great music — Cole Porter. And I know that ‘coming-and-going’ time. Suddenly they seem so independent, hmm?”
    “Scares me a bit.”
    “Does everyone, Sarah. Okay … say half-six for dinner?”
    “Jack — it’s okay. You can say six-thirty. I understand ‘American’.”
    Another laugh. Sometimes just talking to Sarah made him feel good. He’d made many friends since he came to the village. But this connection with Sarah — and the detecting they did — made him feel like this could really be his home. Far worse places than Cherringham…, he thought.
    “Okay, rain’s picking up. Let me pop in. See you soon.”
    And after Sarah’s goodbye, he opened the car door quickly, and dashed across the road to the tiny cottage.
    *
    A small overhang barely kept Jack’s head out of the now-heavier rain, and the back of his winter coat was getting soaked. Good in snow, but it wasn’t at all waterproof.
    I better start checking the weather.
    English rain is nothing to ignore.
    His first ring didn’t bring anyone to the door. Maybe Goode was out?
    But then Jack heard the barking of what had to be a small dog with a high-pitched yap .
    A voice on the other side of the door. “All right, Biscuit. Easy now. Just the doorbell.”
    The dog, though, kept up its steady barking, and then Jack heard a lock being thrown and the door opened.
    The man before him wore a quizzical expression, thin grey hair neatly combed to one side. Dress shirt, buttoned vest.
    “Yes. What can I do for you? Not selling anything, are you?”
    Jack shook his head, hoping that Goode would allow him entry out of the rain.
    “Mr. Goode, I’m Jack Brennan, and—”
    “That American fellow. New York cop, right?”
    Goode’s eyes had narrowed as he spoke.
    Jack smiled. “You got it. And I’m friends with Helen Edwards.”
    “Good woman. Not bad at trotting the boards either.”
    If anything the rain got worse, but Goode seemed oblivious to Jack’s state.
    Jack nodded in the direction of the storm behind him. “You think I could come inside, just…”
    Goode’s eyes widened as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him at all, opened the door, and let Jack in.
    *
    The cottage might look small on the outside, but if anything it felt even smaller inside.
    Too much dark furniture, antimacassars in place but turned a deep yellow from age. Had there been a Mrs. Goode who took care of such things, now gone?
    Newspapers piled by an easy chair with an indented cushion. One light on in the gloomy room, windows covered by curtains that could make it hard for even a sunny day to penetrate here.
    The dog — Biscuit