of the Asbury Park Civic Center, took out a spotlight, and won the crown in spite of it. Why did we have to keep carting that thing around from apartment to apartment? he’d asked. It’s not like you even fit into it anymore. In those days, I didn’t have the nerve to question him. Poor Jackie.
As I exited Highway 14, Dot powdered her nose in antici pation.
“Are we there yet?” she asked, like a little kid.
“This is it,” I answered, pulling into the lot.
There were twinkling lights strung across the trees and under the eaves of the Vicarage. Ian’s theory was that holiday decorations, regardless of the time of year, provided people with subliminal encouragement to open their pocketbooks. Dot was unmoved by the colored lights, but when she saw the wooden sign with the hatchet-bearing biddy spinning around in the teacup, she let out a gasp. It made me feel a little guilty, but only until I realized I was actually doing her a service by saving her from having to spend yet another boring evening with Jackie and Richard.
I convinced Dot to leave her suitcase in the car for the time being and we headed over to the Blue Boar. We were early, and only a handful of people were there. Some were standing close to the fireplace, which had a single Duraflame log in it. The rest were clustered around the large oak buffet.
“Can I get you something, Dot?” I was impressed by the lavish spread.
“Try one of those,” said a burly older man clad in a green version of Dot’s warm-up suit. He gestured toward a platter of what looked like fried wontons. “They’re personal steak and kidney pies. Very authentic.”
“Mmm,” said Dot, who downed one, then grabbed another. “Absolutely delicious! Oh, and look at those savories over there. They look so appetizing. I’m always amazed by what a sprig of parsley can do.”
“Maybe I’ll try one of these.” I picked up a tiny ramekin filled with something I thought might be crème brûlée.
Just then, Ian came over, making happy noises. “I’m so glad to see everyone tucking in. The stomach rules the mind, as Hercule Poirot tells us. Wouldn’t you agree, Cece, that food makes an event? Cece, are you all right? Doesn’t the soufflé au kipper agree with you?”
“Love it,” I said, searching for something to wash away the vile taste in my mouth. “Excuse me for a moment.”
I found the beverages and poured Diet Coke down my throat. I imagined the tiny bubbles irradiating the evil kippers.
“Agatha loved good food,” Ian was saying when I reappeared with a glass of sherry for Dot. “Do you know that even when she was living in the Arabian desert in a tent with her second husband, she dressed for dinner? She imported Stilton cheese and chocolate truffles for her and Sir Mallowan to enjoy, and prevailed upon local cooks to produce éclairs with cream from water-buffalo milk and walnut soufflés cooked in a square tin can.”
“According to her autobiography, Agatha had a very happy childhood, with no end of delicious treats,” added Dot. “She writes beautifully about the hot buns made by Cook, and the French plums that were always in a jar in Auntie-Grannie’s cupboard.”
“The French plums,” exclaimed Ian. “Why yes!” He sud denly looked at Dot as if she herself were edible.
“Stop that,” said Dot, sipping her sherry. “I’m here for the intellectual stimulation.”
At her rebuff, Ian turned redder than usual. Then he remembered she was a potential client. He collected himself and approached the podium. After surveying the room, he clinked his glass a couple of times with a handy Christietown button. “Ahem! May I have everyone’s attention?”
All eyes—that would be ten sets of two—turned his way.
“Welcome friends and mystery lovers! I am your host, Ian Christie.”
“Is he actually related?” whispered Dot.
I rolled my eyes.
“Please find seats in the circle while you can,” Ian said with a fluttering motion of his
As I exited Highway 14, Dot powdered her nose in antici pation.
“Are we there yet?” she asked, like a little kid.
“This is it,” I answered, pulling into the lot.
There were twinkling lights strung across the trees and under the eaves of the Vicarage. Ian’s theory was that holiday decorations, regardless of the time of year, provided people with subliminal encouragement to open their pocketbooks. Dot was unmoved by the colored lights, but when she saw the wooden sign with the hatchet-bearing biddy spinning around in the teacup, she let out a gasp. It made me feel a little guilty, but only until I realized I was actually doing her a service by saving her from having to spend yet another boring evening with Jackie and Richard.
I convinced Dot to leave her suitcase in the car for the time being and we headed over to the Blue Boar. We were early, and only a handful of people were there. Some were standing close to the fireplace, which had a single Duraflame log in it. The rest were clustered around the large oak buffet.
“Can I get you something, Dot?” I was impressed by the lavish spread.
“Try one of those,” said a burly older man clad in a green version of Dot’s warm-up suit. He gestured toward a platter of what looked like fried wontons. “They’re personal steak and kidney pies. Very authentic.”
“Mmm,” said Dot, who downed one, then grabbed another. “Absolutely delicious! Oh, and look at those savories over there. They look so appetizing. I’m always amazed by what a sprig of parsley can do.”
“Maybe I’ll try one of these.” I picked up a tiny ramekin filled with something I thought might be crème brûlée.
Just then, Ian came over, making happy noises. “I’m so glad to see everyone tucking in. The stomach rules the mind, as Hercule Poirot tells us. Wouldn’t you agree, Cece, that food makes an event? Cece, are you all right? Doesn’t the soufflé au kipper agree with you?”
“Love it,” I said, searching for something to wash away the vile taste in my mouth. “Excuse me for a moment.”
I found the beverages and poured Diet Coke down my throat. I imagined the tiny bubbles irradiating the evil kippers.
“Agatha loved good food,” Ian was saying when I reappeared with a glass of sherry for Dot. “Do you know that even when she was living in the Arabian desert in a tent with her second husband, she dressed for dinner? She imported Stilton cheese and chocolate truffles for her and Sir Mallowan to enjoy, and prevailed upon local cooks to produce éclairs with cream from water-buffalo milk and walnut soufflés cooked in a square tin can.”
“According to her autobiography, Agatha had a very happy childhood, with no end of delicious treats,” added Dot. “She writes beautifully about the hot buns made by Cook, and the French plums that were always in a jar in Auntie-Grannie’s cupboard.”
“The French plums,” exclaimed Ian. “Why yes!” He sud denly looked at Dot as if she herself were edible.
“Stop that,” said Dot, sipping her sherry. “I’m here for the intellectual stimulation.”
At her rebuff, Ian turned redder than usual. Then he remembered she was a potential client. He collected himself and approached the podium. After surveying the room, he clinked his glass a couple of times with a handy Christietown button. “Ahem! May I have everyone’s attention?”
All eyes—that would be ten sets of two—turned his way.
“Welcome friends and mystery lovers! I am your host, Ian Christie.”
“Is he actually related?” whispered Dot.
I rolled my eyes.
“Please find seats in the circle while you can,” Ian said with a fluttering motion of his
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