Going Where the Wind Blows by Jan Christensen Page A

found her to be businesslike and practical. No warmth, but no censure, either.
    Jimmy gave her his usual hound-dog look, and Rita Mae gave him her usual faint smile, not wanting to encourage him in any way. Without her asking, he poured her a Martinez. Jimmy had stolen the recipe from Jerry Thomas over at the Occidental Hotel. She particularly liked the cherry at the bottom of the glass, nicely coated with the gin and sweet vermouth.
    She’d been here a week, and had learned almost nothing about what had happened to Bill. The sheriff wouldn’t tell her anything, and the other men tended to cluck her under the chin or pat her on the head when she asked questions. Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. Her mother’s voice, quoting the Bible, rang in her ears. Well, Rita Mae had asked and asked, but nothing she wanted had been given to her until Bill came along, and now he was dead.
    If only she weren’t so damned cute. She hated her “button” nose, huge blue eyes, the full lips, and the dark blond hair which had a curly mind of its own. Of course all that and her curvy figure made it easy to ply the whore trade, but no one took her seriously. The education her father had been so insistent she have, and all the reading she’d done all those years, had been of no use in her present situation, nor had it been since her parents died in a carriage accident four years ago, leaving her educated, but penniless.
    The place was almost empty, and Rita Mae had almost finished her drink when a rather short, slender man sat down next to her at the bar and ordered a whiskey. Then he turned to her and said, “You look lonely.”
    She stared at him. That was a new line. Most men weren’t looking at her to try to figure out how she might be feeling. Certainly, none of them cared. Of course, it might be because of where she hung out.
    She didn’t know how to answer him, so she shrugged. But she inspected him under lowered lashes. Hehad interesting hazel eyes, light brown hair, a slightly crooked nose. And nice lips. Her gaze lingered on those lips, then she looked down at her cocktail.
    “You’re also new here,” he said.
    “Got into town about a week ago,” she answered. “But I haven’t seen you before.”
    He stared at her, and she realized she’d spoken too boldly, as usual. Avoiding his stare, she took a sip of her Martinez.
    “I travel a lot,” he said.
    “Oh, a drummer?”
    “Sort of.”
    He’s lying , she realized, and her guard went up. “What does ‘sort of’ mean?”
    His smile was easy. “It means I sell myself—I’m an actor. Came into town with the Cisco Players. We’re doing Taming of the Shrew. ”
    An actor. She’d met a few. Full of themselves and always broke. She returned to her drink, all interest in the man gone.
    When she glanced back at him, she saw his puzzled look. Perhaps he was used to women falling all over him. She was too practical for that.
    “What brought you to San Francisco?” he asked.
    “I came with my fianc é . He met with an unfortunate accident.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”
    She shrugged. Until she had another customer, she had nothing else to do. She didn’t imagine he’d be a customer—he probably got all the women he wanted. “He was shot in the lobby of the Occidental Hotel. You may have heard about it.”
    “No. Is he all right?”
    “He’s dead.”
    His eyes widened slightly, then he looked away from her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “Yeah. So was I. He had all our money on him, and it’s disappeared.”
    “That’s too bad.”
    The guy was full of platitudes.
    “I thought so,” she said. “That’s why I ended up here.”
    She watched his face. First he swallowed hard, then he frowned, then he tried to make his face a mask. To cover, he took a sip of his whiskey. Not a great actor. She wondered about that.
    “When’s the first performance of the play?” she