THREESHE’D BEEN SEEN, so she came out from behind the wagon.
A beach cape floated off her shoulders, with nothing but a string at the throat to keep it from blowing completely away.
Underneath, she was clad in a Bikini, consisting of a loading-platform bra—it held up without covering up—and a breechcloth which narrowly escaped being a mere G-string.
Well, this was a private pool. I imagine she could legally have gone into it naked if she’d wanted to.
I could see the old man wasn’t too overjoyed by the new developments. “Mr. Svederup,” he mumbled. “My daughter-in-law, Mrs. Crossway.”
She was Junior’s wife. Or I should say, widow.
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” she said.
“Why, no, Nelda,” said H. H. C. “Svederup here is the one who pulled off that Minnesota murder scoop. I nam
