1 Portrait of a Gossip
“The door to the Holmeses’ bungalow was open. Juliet leaned her easel against the wall and called, “Jillian! Are you working? It’s Juliet Henry. Can I come in?”
There was no answer. Fearing she might be interrupting a writer’s trance, Juliet stuck her head in the door and looked around tentatively.
The bungalow was deserted.
A few things were evident without ever crossing the threshold. Jillian Holmes was not a housekeeper. In fact it was worse than that. The cottage was filthy, muddy footprints... on the floor, trash and wine bottles overflowing the small can by the sink, dust and pollen on everything else, including the studio windows which let in the light so needed by artists and, one assumed, illustrators.
She could smell the disintegrating leather of an old easy chair even above the stale cigarettes and sour wine which had stained the sink’s surround.
The place looked—felt—abandoned. The flies were dead. Even the cobwebs were dirty, the spiders moved on to cleaner places.MoreLess
There was no answer. Fearing she might be interrupting a writer’s trance, Juliet stuck her head in the door and looked around tentatively.
The bungalow was deserted.
A few things were evident without ever crossing the threshold. Jillian Holmes was not a housekeeper. In fact it was worse than that. The cottage was filthy, muddy footprints... on the floor, trash and wine bottles overflowing the small can by the sink, dust and pollen on everything else, including the studio windows which let in the light so needed by artists and, one assumed, illustrators.
She could smell the disintegrating leather of an old easy chair even above the stale cigarettes and sour wine which had stained the sink’s surround.
The place looked—felt—abandoned. The flies were dead. Even the cobwebs were dirty, the spiders moved on to cleaner places.MoreLess
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