up. “His head was pulled up in a flounder net this morning.”
Duncan felt ill. “In the water all week and still identifiable? Not eaten away?”
“Dental records, I’m sure,” said Osbert. “Teeth are tenacious little bastards.”
“They’re trying to figure out if he died during the storm … or not,” said Syrie, as she played with the tiny edge of cobweb lace on her collar. “It seems the foot was sawed off at the ankle, not snapped off by a propeller.”
“They used to tell the time of drownings by when the watches stopped,” said Duncan, “but they’re all waterproof now.”
“He wasn’t wearing a watch,” said Osbert.
“How do you know that?” asked Duncan.
There was a dark silence during which Osbert picked up his cigar and put it back in its case. “It’s what the man’s wife told the police. It was in the paper. You do read, don’t you? Or do you just play with eel heads?” He took his napkin off his lap and retrieved his stick. He turned to Syrie and gestured at the wall with it. “Shall we go next door for coffee?”
Syrie stood up by way of an answer and shook her clothes back in place.
Osbert rose like an iceberg. “I’ll settle lunch on my way out, Duncan, and I’ll have papers sent over later today for you to look at. They’re all made up.”
All made up. Their partnership was not five minutes old, and Duncan hated him already. He stood to shake hands, and it felt like holding a mackerel. Syrie leaned across the table and kissed Duncan on the cheek. He felt her tongue on his skin, and then he felt it slide to his lips, which made him jerk back, bumping the table and spilling more of the soup. Syrie turned and flounced to the door, laughing to herself. He noticed one or two people turning their heads to look at them, and he quickly busied himself sopping up the soup. When he peeled away the thick layer of napkins, the varnish came off with it.
He stared at Osbert’s perfectly suited back at the cashier’s station by the door. Osbert removed a roll of bills from his pocket like plunder and was beginning to count out the money when he suddenly pitched forward and grabbed the counter. His walking stick fell to the ground with a loud clatter. Duncan could not see Osbert’s expression, but he could guess. Right now, the soup must be burning through the lining of his stomach.
“Osbert!” Syrie shouted as he dropped to the floor, knees first, then forehead, before folding up on himself completely. The dog barked.
Slocum and the staff came running out from the kitchen. Marney called 911 on her cell phone, then stood next to Duncan, shaking. He held up his bowl. “Could I get some of this soup to go?” he asked, and she looked at him as if he had two heads. Off in the distance they heard the first siren. Slocum threw open the door to wave them down, and a wall of wind pushed into the restaurant, blowing Osbert’s wad of ten-dollar bills around the room in a storm of money.
seven
The contract landed on Duncan’s desk later that afternoon, as promised, even while Osbert was still in the hospital having his stomach pumped.
“For your viewing pleasure.” Beaky bowed from the hips, and as he bent forward his ferret slid off his shoulder and leaped to the desk. Duncan took a swipe, and it was gone in a flurry of fur. The air was heavily perfumed with ferret musk.
“I’ve got to hand it to Fingers,” said Duncan. “It takes a lot of B.O. to overpower rotting fish.” He cracked open the window and was instantly fixated by the blinding glare of the sun on the water. A trawler made a black shape against the light as it pulled into Petersen’s Marina, surrounded by a white mist of gulls that had followed it in from the sea.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” said Beaky.
“Yes,” said Duncan, not expecting someone like Beaky to appreciate the beauty of anything other than money. “No need to wait. It’s going to take a while.”
Beaky picked up the ferret from the floor.
Duncan felt ill. “In the water all week and still identifiable? Not eaten away?”
“Dental records, I’m sure,” said Osbert. “Teeth are tenacious little bastards.”
“They’re trying to figure out if he died during the storm … or not,” said Syrie, as she played with the tiny edge of cobweb lace on her collar. “It seems the foot was sawed off at the ankle, not snapped off by a propeller.”
“They used to tell the time of drownings by when the watches stopped,” said Duncan, “but they’re all waterproof now.”
“He wasn’t wearing a watch,” said Osbert.
“How do you know that?” asked Duncan.
There was a dark silence during which Osbert picked up his cigar and put it back in its case. “It’s what the man’s wife told the police. It was in the paper. You do read, don’t you? Or do you just play with eel heads?” He took his napkin off his lap and retrieved his stick. He turned to Syrie and gestured at the wall with it. “Shall we go next door for coffee?”
Syrie stood up by way of an answer and shook her clothes back in place.
Osbert rose like an iceberg. “I’ll settle lunch on my way out, Duncan, and I’ll have papers sent over later today for you to look at. They’re all made up.”
All made up. Their partnership was not five minutes old, and Duncan hated him already. He stood to shake hands, and it felt like holding a mackerel. Syrie leaned across the table and kissed Duncan on the cheek. He felt her tongue on his skin, and then he felt it slide to his lips, which made him jerk back, bumping the table and spilling more of the soup. Syrie turned and flounced to the door, laughing to herself. He noticed one or two people turning their heads to look at them, and he quickly busied himself sopping up the soup. When he peeled away the thick layer of napkins, the varnish came off with it.
He stared at Osbert’s perfectly suited back at the cashier’s station by the door. Osbert removed a roll of bills from his pocket like plunder and was beginning to count out the money when he suddenly pitched forward and grabbed the counter. His walking stick fell to the ground with a loud clatter. Duncan could not see Osbert’s expression, but he could guess. Right now, the soup must be burning through the lining of his stomach.
“Osbert!” Syrie shouted as he dropped to the floor, knees first, then forehead, before folding up on himself completely. The dog barked.
Slocum and the staff came running out from the kitchen. Marney called 911 on her cell phone, then stood next to Duncan, shaking. He held up his bowl. “Could I get some of this soup to go?” he asked, and she looked at him as if he had two heads. Off in the distance they heard the first siren. Slocum threw open the door to wave them down, and a wall of wind pushed into the restaurant, blowing Osbert’s wad of ten-dollar bills around the room in a storm of money.
seven
The contract landed on Duncan’s desk later that afternoon, as promised, even while Osbert was still in the hospital having his stomach pumped.
“For your viewing pleasure.” Beaky bowed from the hips, and as he bent forward his ferret slid off his shoulder and leaped to the desk. Duncan took a swipe, and it was gone in a flurry of fur. The air was heavily perfumed with ferret musk.
“I’ve got to hand it to Fingers,” said Duncan. “It takes a lot of B.O. to overpower rotting fish.” He cracked open the window and was instantly fixated by the blinding glare of the sun on the water. A trawler made a black shape against the light as it pulled into Petersen’s Marina, surrounded by a white mist of gulls that had followed it in from the sea.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” said Beaky.
“Yes,” said Duncan, not expecting someone like Beaky to appreciate the beauty of anything other than money. “No need to wait. It’s going to take a while.”
Beaky picked up the ferret from the floor.
Similar Books
