The Wycherly Woman by Ross MacDonald

California fruit, hung in full teen-age maturity for a few sweet months or years, then fall into the first high reaching hand. The memory of the sweet days stayed in them and fermented.
    Closing the door she brushed against my back in a movement which was either erotic or alcoholic. The odor of gin which she wore instead of perfume suggested the latter possibility. But she opened up her minkless mink and gave me a dazzling smile across her figure. Touch me if you dare, the smile said: I dare you, but don’t you dare. They never got over their grudging need of the reaching hands that violated their first fine careless narcissism.
    “I don’t really work for my husband any more, but I’m sure that I can help you with your needs, since he isn’t here at the moment. We have many fine properties listed.”
    Coat and figure swinging in an interesting cross-rhythm, she pulled a straight chair out from a desk and offered it to me. Isat. A layer of dust powdered the formica desk-top. The daily calendar hadn’t been changed for the new year.
    In front of the calendar was a little pile of three-by-five business blotters decorated with a photographic cut. The cut showed the clown-nosed man wearing a polka-dot bow tie and a carnivorous grin. It was captioned: “Ben Merriman the Realtor—firstest with the mostest. An honest deal every time.”
    “Many fine,” his wife said. She sat down in a businesslike way which her unbusinesslike body parodied. “How large a property are you interested in, Mr_____?”
    I got out my wallet and produced a card which a Santa Monica life insurance salesman had presented to me before he found out what I did for a living. The name on the card was William C. Wheeling, Jr. I gave it to her.
    “Wheeling,” I said. “I like a big house—something big and traditional-looking like that white Colonial I saw in Atherton today. It has your husband’s sign on it.”
    “You must be thinking of the Mandeville house on Whiteoaks. Big stone wall around it?”
    “That’s the one.”
    “I’m sorry.” She was really sorry. “It sold. Too bad. You could have gotten a terrific buy. The owner knocked off thousands from the price.”
    “Who was the owner?”
    “A Mrs. Wycherly, a very fine woman, well-heeled. She told Ben she intends to travel.”
    “Where to?”
    “I wouldn’t know, I’m sure.” She opened her eyes wide in dubious innocence: they were dull purple like Santa Clara plums. “If you’re thinking of trying to contact her and make an offer, it’s no use. I think it’s even out of escrow already. The new owners are moving down from Oakland Heights any day now. Wonderful people. Ben said they paid cash out. But we have many other splendid buys.”
    “I’m interested in this one. The for-sale sign is still up.”
    “That doesn’t mean a thing. Ben should have taken it down long ago. If he’d keep his mind on the business—”
    The front door opened, blowing cold air on the back of my neck. I thought it was Merriman and rose turning to meet him. It was a younger man in a turtle-neck cashmere sweater, robin’s-egg blue, the color of his eyes. His blonde good looks were spoiled by a small goatee which wagged on his chin like an unfinished piece of face.
    “Where’s Ben?” He said to the woman. “I mean it, doll.”
    “I don’t know where he is. He stood me up here two hours ago, said he had an appointment.”
    “With Jessie?”
    The woman’s hand went to her mouth. Through the fair skin on the back of it, I could see the branching veins climb like fine blue ivy. The tip of her middle finger slipped in between her teeth. She bit on it hard, unwincing.
    “Jessie?” she said around it. “What’s Jessie got to do with it?”
    “He made a heavy pass at her today while I was at the store. I don’t like it.”
    She took her finger out of her mouth. “I’m crazy about it. Are you sure that Jessie isn’t making it up?”
    “I know damn well she isn’t.”
    He raised his fist