In nothing short of lynx-eyed rage, Lydia Newell wasted no time in reaching the Crescent Valley Police Chief by telephone. Nor did she mince words with the barrel-chested official in conveying to him what she thought of his "little whore niece"!
"What the hell, Lydia, I-I can't believe it!" Link Morgan stammered in immediate jealous anger. He'd been sitting behind the scarred desk in his grubby Town-Hall office, staring idly at the half-empty bourbon-bottle he'd been nursing, while lecherously contemplating the tightly rounded, naked young ass of his dead sister's daughter whom he'd so patiently been schooling in the sinful skills of incestuous sex. The jangling phone had interrupted his lust-whetting thoughts, but the irritation in his voice quickly faded when Aaron Newell's fire-eating daughter bitterly unloaded on him! Goddamn, he couldn't believe it… Annie and Mark Blakely…? The little two-timing hot-box.
"Y-You're sure, girl… I mean…?"
"Don't show your stupidity, Morgan! I don't make mistakes! You ought to know that!" she gnashed into his ear, causing him to momentarily jerk the receiver away. "I saw when they went in, then left the old quarry… and I doubt like hell that they were hunting for fossils! But that's neither here nor there! You listening…?"
"Y-Yeah, sure, Lydia! I'm hearing every word!" the red-faced police officer obediently replied, his mean eyes vindictively glaring with the thoughts of what he would do to the unthankful little cunt for this! And Blakely, the sonofabitch, he'd hang him in the bargain…!
"I know what you're thinking, but forget it!" the snapping voice of the auburn-haired girl intuitively ordered. "We're doing this my way, just as we planned! Understand?"
"Right, right… your way, Lydia," Morgan quickly agreed, though his own vengeful thoughts were far from forgotten. "Just name the time…"
"Tonight, if I can inveigle Jean Blakely out here to the ranch… and unless I've lost my grip, you can count on it," Lydia advised, her words reaching him in an almost serpentine hiss. "I'll call you back to verify everything within an hour or so. I want Mark Blakely's balls tacked right up over my bed, Link, you undrerstand?"
"Right… I know! You can count on me!" Morgan answered in a half-drunken, private viciousness of his own.
"I better be able to! Get the camera equipment ready, and don't forget… the acid, eh?" she schemingly reminded. "We'll catch the whole scene on film, then select after… but remember, keep my face out of it, Buster! Do what ever you want with the rest of me."
"Right," Link said, lustfully grinning at the prospective thought. "Don't worry, honey, they'll be pictorial gems…"
"Okay, okay… I can just imagine what's going through that lecherous brain of yours. You just sit there and think about it until I call you and verify that it's on… and don't come out here staven drunk," the valley's richest and most powerful bachelorette warned. "Or I might just have two pair of balls hanging over my bed…!"
Steve was up for lunch, then away on his quest for story material, leaving Jean and Carol to rattle uneasily around the small house. Both girls sensed the unwanted strain between them, but neither could put a finger on the actual crux of the other's reasoning. While Mark, who had come home shortly before noon in a miserable, untalkative mood, slept in the guest-room, the once inseparable girls attempted to patiently overcome the secretive barrier which had pitted them against one another. Though they both unwittingly shared the identical, sensuous desire for Caesar's animal-affections, neither could openly admit to it for what each felt were obvious, debasing reasons. Instead, they drank coffee, warmly fumbling through memories and people from times passed, while their young female brains privily filled at every chance with thoughts and reveries of their incredible dog-lover.
Once, Jean in her flusterated jealousy, had been sorely tempted to come right out with it! She just had to know if her wild darling had come looking for her last night! But just as she was about to broach the question, the telephone intervened, and Carol, dreadingly suspecting a prying interrogation from her dearest friend, had welcomed the interruption with a sigh of relief. In fact, while Jean talked, the raven-haired girl had risen from the couch and poured herself a cognac from the cocktail table…
"I… I don't know what you mean," Jean was saying into the phone, her apparently troubled words reaching Carol as she recapped the bottle, then tugged the hem of her sweater down over her slacks. There was a tightness in Jean's voice that her friend readily recognized, the latter returning to the davenport as she listened intently, yet really not meaning to eavesdrop…
"… About Mark, you say…? What about him, Miss Newell…? All right, then Lydia, but we've never met… I see… Yes, it's quite obvious what you're implying, but I don't think I'm inter… You're not being very nice…! Yes, yes, she's the Chief of Police's niece… I don't believe it…! This… this morning…?… That doesn't mean that they…!… Well… what time…? The A and B on the Ranch Road, isn't it…? All right… what time, again? Eight… Yes… I promise, I won't tell a soul… but you better be damned well right, Miss Newell…!"
Carol sipped at her cognac. Something was definitely not right, and it certainly had to do with Mark. The expression on Jean's face as she recradled the telephone would have portrayed that had she not overheard the one-sided conversation. Ordinarily, Carol thought, she could and would put forth the questioning probe; they had always been that close. But after the thing both of them had been carefully weathering all morning, how could she?
Jean returned to the couch forcing a strained, pinched smile. "Lord, I'm sorry, Carol, but I have an overlooked engagement this evening. These small towns," she managed, nervously picking up her coffee-cup. "If it isn't a school thing, the local Woman's Club manages to get some fund raising program going, and of course because of Mark's position, I'm always expected to attend."
"I understand, dear," Carol sympathised. "I just poured myself a cognac. Would you like one?"
"Yes… yes, I think I need something," Jean replied, her mind filled with Lydia Newell's shocking conversation, though she didn't believe a word of the girl's accusation concerning Mark and Annie Purcell that very morning! But what else had she meant by "choice information relative to your husband"? God, the wealthy girl's spiteful tone had actually unnerved her!
That Mark had undoubtedly had some sort of love-life before their hasty courtship and marriage came as no surprise to Jean, and it may well have been with Lydia Newell… but little, teenaged Annie Purcell…? She couldn't believe that…
"Wh-What…? I'm sorry Carol, I wasn't listening," the young blonde wife startledly responded. "What did you say…?"
"I asked if you'd like some water with this cognac, honey?"
"No… no thank you… I'll pour it into my coffee," Jean said, leaning forward and offering a smile. "Coffee royale… I love them, don't you?"
Slowly, Carol re-approached the couch, then lowered herself, adding the cognac to Jean's coffee. "Maybe… maybe, you'd like me to go along with you tonight, honey… you know, so that you can get away early…"
"No! No… That is, it's one of those personal invitation affairs, Carol," Jean, with her forced little smile, advised. "I'm terribly sorry to walk off on you like this, but I don't know what else I can do, darling…"
"I understand, Jean. Don't worry about Steve and me. We'll be here when you get back," Carol assured, patting her friend's hand. "Just… just don't be too long."
"Oh, I won't… I won't…"