yame Read Online Free Page B

pulled it away and removed his pen and notepad. "Let me write some of this down. Governor Bridge Road is where the house is? And what town?"
    "Luntville, sort of. Out off the back roads, things get kind'a mushed together."
    Westmore scribbled, frantic. "And you say he died of a heart attack roughly fifteen years ago... Can that be verified? His name never came up on the Social Security Death Index."
    She gave a casual laugh, still fanning herself. "Westmore? There ain't no Social Security nothin' 'round these parts. If'n someone die, they'se get buried. But I know the boy who buried him —Waldo Parkins— er, well, he ain't a boy no more, more likely closer ta my age now. See, he worked for Crafter, drove him 'round in his big fancy car, did the yard-work, run errands..."
    Pay dirt, pay dirt, pay dirt! Westmore kept scribbling.
    "And I'se good friends with Waldo's Aunt Ida-Waldo live with her near Crick City. Just you tell Waldo you'se a friend'a mine, they'd be happy to talk ta ya all about Crafter. It's Waldo who found Crafter dead'n buried him. Buried him right on his grounds, even made a little wood plaque fer a tombstone, he tolt me."
    Perfect! Perfect! Westmore couldn't write fast enough. He could take a picture of that plaque! "Now, now, uh," he stammered. "How do I reach this Waldo Parkins?"
    "Just call him up. I gots his aunt's phone number written down at the house."
    Westmore could've swooned. "Easter! You really are a Godsend! His phone number?"
    "Uh-huh. We ain't got a phone ourselfs but if'n we need ta make a call, we use the pay phone down at Hull's. But after I show ya where Crafter's house is? You'll'se need ta drive me back ta my shack 'cos that's where the phone list is. And you'll have ta find it yer-self off the list —it was Grandpop'n Noot who keep the list'a neighbor's numbers. See, I cain't read myself."
    "That's no problem, Easter, no problem at all," but then he realized, Shit, I'll have to meet her husband. Oh, well... "I look forward to meeting your husband."
    "Aw, well, that cain't happen 'cos my wonderful husband Noot —he died."
    Westmore froze up. "Easter, I'm very sorry to hear that — "
    She flipped her hand. "Don't be, Westmore. Like my Grandpop Orne used ta say, death ain't nothin' but the spirit movin' on ta someplace else."
    "Yes," he replied for lack of anything else. Then he thought of something, and took out his cellphone. "If the Parkins number is listed, I might be able to find it here..."
    Her eyes thinned in curiosity. "What's — Oh, that one of them cellphones I keep hearin' "bout."
    Westmore nodded. "And I can go onto the internet with it." He pulled up AOL white pages, then typed in the name Parkins. "And what town do Waldo and his aunt live in?"
    "Crick City."
    GREAT name for a town. In a few seconds he found it. "Parkins, Ida. That's got to be it."
    "Amazin', all this teck-noller-gee these days."
    "It's a great convenience and a great pain in the butt," he said but in the stasis, he realized that the sheer excitement of her revelations, along with his dense attraction to her, had left his penis painfully erect and leaking. I've got a loke for the house, a phone number, witnesses... It's the motherlode! Grinning, he set his pen down to take another sip of coffee, but —
    click
    —his pen rolled off the table.
    When he stooped over to retrieve it, Easter, in a motion almost mechanical, uncrossed her legs and parted her thighs.
    Westmore stared.
    A plenteous black nest of hair sprawled at her crotch. The parted thighs looked creamy-white. Westmore stalled on a breath in his chest; he could just make out the delectable twist of flesh hidden in the fur, and in a fantasy he saw himself crawling over there beneath the table and burying his face between her legs...
    Get up!
    He grabbed the pen and retook his seat. Had she done it on purpose? No, that was just more gutter-minded fantasy. Easter immediately kept talking as though completely unmindful...
    "And when yer talkin' ta