her vacation time. But I can tell you from seeing
her today, looking about 80 years old in an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, that
this is far, far from a vacation!”
Darrow nodded, rubbing his
temples. “Most days I like being a cop,” he muttered. “Other days kind of suck.”
Hester flattened her mouth and
turned back to face him. Her eyes strayed down to the package. Impulsively, she
spun on her heel. She left the door open as she strode into the kitchen to
check on a pot of boiling potatoes.
“You’d better come in!” she
called brusquely behind her. “My little old lady neighbors are pretty quick to
call Portland’s best to report strange men loitering in the hallway. You might
not enjoy explaining.”
The apartment was redolent with
the spicy aroma of pork, paprika and cooked cabbage. Nate followed her into the
kitchen. Steam droplets coated the leaded glass of built-in china cupboards.
“Mmm, this place smells like the
best cafe in Budapest!”
Hester’s mouth turned up at one
edge. She nodded Nate towards a wicker chair at her tiny kitchen table and gave
a tug to straighten the red Chinese silk housecoat she liked to wear when she
cooked.
“You’re pretty close. My mother’s
family came from a little town near the border of Austria and Hungary. Hungarian
peasant fare is my idea of comfort food. You know that part of the world?”
“I was one of those teenagers
with a backpack and a Eurailpass. A buddy and I spent the summer after high
school, along with half the rest of the American teenage population in 1976.
Paprika has been one of my favorite seasonings ever since.”
An eyebrow arched, Hester reached
to the window sill and lifted a large crystal goblet of pear-colored
chardonnay. “Have you eaten? Lord knows I always have leftovers. My
grandmother’s old recipes make enough for a family of 10. I’ve yet to learn to
cook for one.”
“Uh, thanks, I already Escaped
from New York. Though, uh, a little taste never hurt.” He looked around the
kitchen. Atop the refrigerator sat a blooming purple primrose with the
supermarket price sticker still on the plastic pot. “Uh, I don’t suppose you
have a cold beer for a parched public servant?”
Hester curtly nodded. “Fridge.”
Hoisting a huge stainless steel spoon and stirring the bubbling pork
concoction, she stole a glance at Darrow’s waist as he kneeled to pull a Blue
Heron Pale Ale from the refrigerator’s lower shelf. A silvery detective’s
shield peeked from a leather flap snapped around his belt.
“Good thing you’re out running in
the mornings or you’d have to get your arteries rootered out before you’re 50,
the things you eat.”
“Ah, but life’s too short to eat
boiled bulgur. Had a housemate in college who hardly ate anything else. Biggest
bore in Eugene.” He smiled. “Uh, say, I brought you a little present.”
Nate nodded at the package as he
popped the cap from his beer. Hester knit her brows and pushed a steam-limpened
curl out of her eyes. She took the package and ripped open the paper.
“A can of Barbasol?” She looked
quizzically at Darrow. He sat low in the chair, his arms and legs crossed,
smirking.
“After you, uh, ran into me at
the meeting last night, I thought maybe you could use that.” He chuckled. “That
moustache was terrible!”
“Oh.” Hester’s face reddened
again. “That.”
“I know – wicked to remind you.
But you blush so well.”
“Humph.”
“Interesting group, wasn’t it?”
“You know they would have clammed
up in a minute if my friend and I had shown up without any kind of disguise. We
just wanted to find out what they were plotting in revenge for – for what
happened to Miss Duffy.”
Mulling this, Darrow propped his
feet on a stool and loosened his tartan necktie with a comfortable grunt.
“Your friend seemed pretty
steamed up about defending that children’s author. What was that all about? I’d
sort of like to talk to this Teri June person. Is she
her today, looking about 80 years old in an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, that
this is far, far from a vacation!”
Darrow nodded, rubbing his
temples. “Most days I like being a cop,” he muttered. “Other days kind of suck.”
Hester flattened her mouth and
turned back to face him. Her eyes strayed down to the package. Impulsively, she
spun on her heel. She left the door open as she strode into the kitchen to
check on a pot of boiling potatoes.
“You’d better come in!” she
called brusquely behind her. “My little old lady neighbors are pretty quick to
call Portland’s best to report strange men loitering in the hallway. You might
not enjoy explaining.”
The apartment was redolent with
the spicy aroma of pork, paprika and cooked cabbage. Nate followed her into the
kitchen. Steam droplets coated the leaded glass of built-in china cupboards.
“Mmm, this place smells like the
best cafe in Budapest!”
Hester’s mouth turned up at one
edge. She nodded Nate towards a wicker chair at her tiny kitchen table and gave
a tug to straighten the red Chinese silk housecoat she liked to wear when she
cooked.
“You’re pretty close. My mother’s
family came from a little town near the border of Austria and Hungary. Hungarian
peasant fare is my idea of comfort food. You know that part of the world?”
“I was one of those teenagers
with a backpack and a Eurailpass. A buddy and I spent the summer after high
school, along with half the rest of the American teenage population in 1976.
Paprika has been one of my favorite seasonings ever since.”
An eyebrow arched, Hester reached
to the window sill and lifted a large crystal goblet of pear-colored
chardonnay. “Have you eaten? Lord knows I always have leftovers. My
grandmother’s old recipes make enough for a family of 10. I’ve yet to learn to
cook for one.”
“Uh, thanks, I already Escaped
from New York. Though, uh, a little taste never hurt.” He looked around the
kitchen. Atop the refrigerator sat a blooming purple primrose with the
supermarket price sticker still on the plastic pot. “Uh, I don’t suppose you
have a cold beer for a parched public servant?”
Hester curtly nodded. “Fridge.”
Hoisting a huge stainless steel spoon and stirring the bubbling pork
concoction, she stole a glance at Darrow’s waist as he kneeled to pull a Blue
Heron Pale Ale from the refrigerator’s lower shelf. A silvery detective’s
shield peeked from a leather flap snapped around his belt.
“Good thing you’re out running in
the mornings or you’d have to get your arteries rootered out before you’re 50,
the things you eat.”
“Ah, but life’s too short to eat
boiled bulgur. Had a housemate in college who hardly ate anything else. Biggest
bore in Eugene.” He smiled. “Uh, say, I brought you a little present.”
Nate nodded at the package as he
popped the cap from his beer. Hester knit her brows and pushed a steam-limpened
curl out of her eyes. She took the package and ripped open the paper.
“A can of Barbasol?” She looked
quizzically at Darrow. He sat low in the chair, his arms and legs crossed,
smirking.
“After you, uh, ran into me at
the meeting last night, I thought maybe you could use that.” He chuckled. “That
moustache was terrible!”
“Oh.” Hester’s face reddened
again. “That.”
“I know – wicked to remind you.
But you blush so well.”
“Humph.”
“Interesting group, wasn’t it?”
“You know they would have clammed
up in a minute if my friend and I had shown up without any kind of disguise. We
just wanted to find out what they were plotting in revenge for – for what
happened to Miss Duffy.”
Mulling this, Darrow propped his
feet on a stool and loosened his tartan necktie with a comfortable grunt.
“Your friend seemed pretty
steamed up about defending that children’s author. What was that all about? I’d
sort of like to talk to this Teri June person. Is she
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