“KEESEY ANSWERED THE front door in a designer running suit, the Round Table Estates’ version of the 1950s housecoat. Theirs was one of the few screen doors in the world that did not squeal when opened. “Thank you, Mrs. Keesey, for letting me stop by in the middle of the day,” said Frawley, stepping inside the chilly foyer. “Quite welcome,” said Mrs. Keesey, looking out at his moldy Tempo cluttering up Excalibur Street, then closing the heavy door. She stepped to the balustrade, where bank statem...ents and investment prospectuses in sliced envelopes were filed between egg-white banister spindles. “Claire!” she sang out, then looked at Frawley with a nonsmile. “She’s back with us again. I don’t know what brought this on.” She eyed the manila envelope in his hand suspiciously, as though it contained information on her. The odor of whiskey on her breath was like a premonition of early death. “Can I offer you some spring water?” she said, studied and formal, an actress bored in her long-running role as wife and housemother.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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