Marcia Whittaker conveyed the cigarette to her lips, sucked in a deep drag, exhaled, tapped ashes from the end of the cigarette into the ash tray, and said, “Emily Hodgkins?”
“Yes, an assistant employed by Phyllis Leeds.”
“Oh!”
“You don’t know her?”
“I don’t know any of them.”
Mason said, “Your boy friend might be about twenty thousand bucks ahead if a guardian wasn’t appointed.”
She looked down at her Chinese slippers for several seconds, then raised her eyes to Mason, and said frankly, “Okay, I get you.”
“It’ll be too bad if your boy friend has a leaky face,” Mason said.
“I get you. I get you,” she said impatiently, “You don’t need to embroider the edges.”
Mason, getting to his feet, said, “Nice place you have here. Going to make a cozy little home.”