sitting with Peter and the Oriental Hercule, who was apt to be Dr. Chong Li. To my further dismay, Mrs. Robison-Dewitt joined us minutes later. She snorted under her breath but managed to produce a chilly smile.
While everyone studied the menu, I raised an eyebrow at Peter. “So you made up a little theory about the murder? Do you think it will stand up under scrutiny, or is it just meant to amuse?”
“I see you’ve been talking to Caron,” he said cheerfully and with unnecessary loudness. “Did she tell you about the blonde walking across the croquet court last night during the movie?”
I tried to shush him, but his words had boomed across the room. Now heads were tilted the better to hear us, my dear, and ears were aquiver. Conversations broke off in midword; no menu fluttered, no fork clattered. Silence. I felt as though I were in a television commercial for a certain stock broker.
“I’ll have the chef’s salad and tea!” I trilled gaily. “And lemon mousse for dessert!”
Gradually and with pained reluctance, the people at the other tables returned to their previous occupations, and I gave Peter a frozen look.
“Why did you blurt that out?” I hissed under my breath.
“It slipped out, Claire.”
“It did not have to slip out at two hundred decibels.” I snatched up a menu and yanked it open. Paper-clipped to one corner was another of the damnable clues. I gaped at it, then noticed Peter watching me and forced myself to scan the rest of the menu with great disinterest.
When he grew tired of smiling and looked away, I pulled the paper free and slid it to my lap to open it. It read, “Necessary to serve batter-dipped portion of minced meat,
sans time limits.” The daily special? A love letter from the chef? Caron could probably decipher it in half a second, but she was already giving her order to the waiter. I put it in my pocket for a later time.
Mrs. Robison-Dewitt gazed past me at Peter. “A blonde by the croquet court, you said? What time was that?”
Peter gulped as my toe connected with his shin. “I’m not sure,” he said in a strained voice that gave me some satisfaction.
“About ten-thirty,” Caron said absently. She turned to me and said, “Did you find a centipede in your menu, Mother? You almost jumped out of your skin.”
Now I had everyone’s attention again. I made a funny little noise that I hoped would pass for a laugh and said, “No, dear, I simply didn’t realize that spinach quiche was on the menu. Had I noticed earlier, I might have ordered that, rather than a salad.”
It went over like a three-day-old casserole. I smiled brightly until everyone at last admitted defeat and returned to their meals. Peter asked if those present were planning to play in the croquet tournament. Mrs. Robison-Dewitt leaned forward, endangering her cantilevered chest to bob her head in response. The drapery of flesh beneath her chin continued to tremble in the aftermath.
“I understand it is to be conducted with partners,” she said in a honeyed voice. “Have you signed up yet, Mr. Rosen?”
“Mrs. Malloy has promised to play with me,” he replied. He avoided my second kick and added, “She enjoys a bit of competition. Don’t you, old girl?”
“Only when I know I’ll win,” I said from clenched teeth. Old girls are known for clenched teeth, real or ceramic.
When lunch was finished, Caron announced that the was going to lie out, which I presumed had nothing to do with passing out and let her go. I returned to the room and tried to fit together the various misshapen pieces of the puzzle,
and arrived at a solution of sorts. Several pieces were swept under the mental carpet to await a later flash of intuitive brilliance.
Shortly before two o’clock I was feeling satisfied with what I had thus far, although I had made no progress with the message from the chef. I changed into a white sundress and a broad-brimmed straw hat (ambiance), put on my sunglasses (wrinkles), and
While everyone studied the menu, I raised an eyebrow at Peter. “So you made up a little theory about the murder? Do you think it will stand up under scrutiny, or is it just meant to amuse?”
“I see you’ve been talking to Caron,” he said cheerfully and with unnecessary loudness. “Did she tell you about the blonde walking across the croquet court last night during the movie?”
I tried to shush him, but his words had boomed across the room. Now heads were tilted the better to hear us, my dear, and ears were aquiver. Conversations broke off in midword; no menu fluttered, no fork clattered. Silence. I felt as though I were in a television commercial for a certain stock broker.
“I’ll have the chef’s salad and tea!” I trilled gaily. “And lemon mousse for dessert!”
Gradually and with pained reluctance, the people at the other tables returned to their previous occupations, and I gave Peter a frozen look.
“Why did you blurt that out?” I hissed under my breath.
“It slipped out, Claire.”
“It did not have to slip out at two hundred decibels.” I snatched up a menu and yanked it open. Paper-clipped to one corner was another of the damnable clues. I gaped at it, then noticed Peter watching me and forced myself to scan the rest of the menu with great disinterest.
When he grew tired of smiling and looked away, I pulled the paper free and slid it to my lap to open it. It read, “Necessary to serve batter-dipped portion of minced meat,
sans time limits.” The daily special? A love letter from the chef? Caron could probably decipher it in half a second, but she was already giving her order to the waiter. I put it in my pocket for a later time.
Mrs. Robison-Dewitt gazed past me at Peter. “A blonde by the croquet court, you said? What time was that?”
Peter gulped as my toe connected with his shin. “I’m not sure,” he said in a strained voice that gave me some satisfaction.
“About ten-thirty,” Caron said absently. She turned to me and said, “Did you find a centipede in your menu, Mother? You almost jumped out of your skin.”
Now I had everyone’s attention again. I made a funny little noise that I hoped would pass for a laugh and said, “No, dear, I simply didn’t realize that spinach quiche was on the menu. Had I noticed earlier, I might have ordered that, rather than a salad.”
It went over like a three-day-old casserole. I smiled brightly until everyone at last admitted defeat and returned to their meals. Peter asked if those present were planning to play in the croquet tournament. Mrs. Robison-Dewitt leaned forward, endangering her cantilevered chest to bob her head in response. The drapery of flesh beneath her chin continued to tremble in the aftermath.
“I understand it is to be conducted with partners,” she said in a honeyed voice. “Have you signed up yet, Mr. Rosen?”
“Mrs. Malloy has promised to play with me,” he replied. He avoided my second kick and added, “She enjoys a bit of competition. Don’t you, old girl?”
“Only when I know I’ll win,” I said from clenched teeth. Old girls are known for clenched teeth, real or ceramic.
When lunch was finished, Caron announced that the was going to lie out, which I presumed had nothing to do with passing out and let her go. I returned to the room and tried to fit together the various misshapen pieces of the puzzle,
and arrived at a solution of sorts. Several pieces were swept under the mental carpet to await a later flash of intuitive brilliance.
Shortly before two o’clock I was feeling satisfied with what I had thus far, although I had made no progress with the message from the chef. I changed into a white sundress and a broad-brimmed straw hat (ambiance), put on my sunglasses (wrinkles), and
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