JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 123 из 425The last one twenty years.”
“What kind of name is Rogette? French?”
“California,” he said, and shrugged as if that one word explained everything. “There’s people in town scared of her.”
“Is that so?”
’kyuh.” Bill hesitated, then added with one of those smiles we put on when we want others to know that we know we’re saying something silly:
“Brenda Meserve says she’s a witch.”
“And the two of them have been staying at Warrington’s almost a year?”
“Ayuh. The Whitmore woman comes n goes, but mostly she’s been here.
Thinkin in town is that they’ll stay until the custody case is finished off, then all go back to California on Devore’s private jet. Leave Osgood to sell Warrington’s, and—”
“Sell it? What do you mean, sell it?”
“I thought you must know,” Bill said, dropping his gearshift into DVAV.
“When old Hugh Emerson told Devore they closed the lodge after Thanksgiving, Devore told him he had no intention of moving. Said he was comfortable right where he was and meant to stay put.”
“He bought the place.” I had been by turns surprised, amused, and angered over the last twenty minutes, but never exactly dumbfounded. Now I was. “He bought Warrington’s Lodge so he wouldn’t have to move to Lookout Rock Hotel over in Castle View, or rent a house.”
“Ayuh, so he did. Nine buildins, includin the main lodge and The Sunset Bar; twelve acres of woods, a six-hole golf course, and five hundred feet of shorefront on The Street. Plus a two-lane bowlin alley and a softball field. Four and a quarter million. His friend Osgood did the deal and Devore paid with a personal check. I wonder how he found room for all those zeros. See you, Mike.”
With that he backed up the driveway, leaving me to stand on the stoop, looking after him with my mouth open.
Plastic owls.
Bill had told me roughly two dozen interesting things in between peeks at his watch, but the one which stayed on top of the pile was the fact (and I did accept it as a fact; he had been too positive for me not to)
that Jo had come down here to take delivery on a couple of plastic god-dam owls.
Had she told me?
She might have. I didn’t remember her doing so, and it seemed to me that I would have, but Jo used to claim that when I got in the zone it was no good to tell me anything; stuff went in one ear and out the other.
Sometimes she’d pin little notes—errands to run, calls to make—to my shirt, as if I were a first-grader.
“What kind of name is Rogette? French?”
“California,” he said, and shrugged as if that one word explained everything. “There’s people in town scared of her.”
“Is that so?”
’kyuh.” Bill hesitated, then added with one of those smiles we put on when we want others to know that we know we’re saying something silly:
“Brenda Meserve says she’s a witch.”
“And the two of them have been staying at Warrington’s almost a year?”
“Ayuh. The Whitmore woman comes n goes, but mostly she’s been here.
Thinkin in town is that they’ll stay until the custody case is finished off, then all go back to California on Devore’s private jet. Leave Osgood to sell Warrington’s, and—”
“Sell it? What do you mean, sell it?”
“I thought you must know,” Bill said, dropping his gearshift into DVAV.
“When old Hugh Emerson told Devore they closed the lodge after Thanksgiving, Devore told him he had no intention of moving. Said he was comfortable right where he was and meant to stay put.”
“He bought the place.” I had been by turns surprised, amused, and angered over the last twenty minutes, but never exactly dumbfounded. Now I was. “He bought Warrington’s Lodge so he wouldn’t have to move to Lookout Rock Hotel over in Castle View, or rent a house.”
“Ayuh, so he did. Nine buildins, includin the main lodge and The Sunset Bar; twelve acres of woods, a six-hole golf course, and five hundred feet of shorefront on The Street. Plus a two-lane bowlin alley and a softball field. Four and a quarter million. His friend Osgood did the deal and Devore paid with a personal check. I wonder how he found room for all those zeros. See you, Mike.”
With that he backed up the driveway, leaving me to stand on the stoop, looking after him with my mouth open.
Plastic owls.
Bill had told me roughly two dozen interesting things in between peeks at his watch, but the one which stayed on top of the pile was the fact (and I did accept it as a fact; he had been too positive for me not to)
that Jo had come down here to take delivery on a couple of plastic god-dam owls.
Had she told me?
She might have. I didn’t remember her doing so, and it seemed to me that I would have, but Jo used to claim that when I got in the zone it was no good to tell me anything; stuff went in one ear and out the other.
Sometimes she’d pin little notes—errands to run, calls to make—to my shirt, as if I were a first-grader.