By John Grisham
Until eventually that September of 1952, Luke Chandler had by no means stored a mystery or informed a unmarried lie. yet within the lengthy, sizzling summer season of his 7th 12 months, teams of migrant staff — and very harmful males — got here during the Arkansas Delta to paintings the Chandler cotton farm. And by surprise mysteries are flooding Luke’s world.
A brutal homicide leaves the city seething in gossip and suspicion. a stunning younger girl ignites forbidden passions. A fatherless child is born ... and somebody has began furtively portray the naked clapboards of the Chandler farmhouse, slowly, painstakingly, bathing the run-down constitution in sparkling white. And as younger Luke watches the realm round him, he unravels secrets and techniques which may shatter lives — and alter his kin and his city forever....
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Extra resources for A Painted House
They’d scarcely slept last night, and it showed in Jordan’s face. Though freshly shaved and impeccably dressed, he had that ragged edge of fatigue, the lean and hungry look of a man operating on reserve strength. Like me. “I’m ready to leave anytime,” she said. He frowned at her dress. ” “Yes. I packed a few of her things in my suitcase. ” She gazed down at the watered-silk skirt. “It’s eerie, isn’t it? How well it fits. ” “Neither of us is, Jordie. ” She looked out the window again, at the lengthening shadows in Place Vendôme.
Nevertheless—” “I won’t believe it. It’s a fabrication. ” “Mum and Dad can’t defend themselves! ” she retorted. ” “Then did you confirm that evidence? ” “Yes, and I trusted Daumier’s report. ” queried Jordan. “Claude Daumier? ” “At the time, he was their liaison to MI6. I asked him to review the findings. ” “Then this Daumier fellow is an idiot,” said Beryl. She turned to the door. ” asked Jordan. “To pack my things,” she said. ” said Hugh. ” Beryl threw a glance over her shoulder. ” Richard Wolf got the call at six that morning.
Jordan stood beside the buffet table and watched the water drip, drip from the ice sculpture into the silver platter of oysters below it. So much for Bastille Day, he thought wearily. Another night, another party. And this one’s about run its course. “You have had more than enough oysters for one night, Reggie,” said a peevish voice. ” “Only because I’ve been watching your diet,” said Helena. ” He lifted the shell to his mouth and tipped the oyster. Nirvana was written on his face as the slippery glob slid into his throat.