pulled a hanger from the closet. “Here, let me take your coat and then . . . and then I’ll introduce you to Hamish and Natasha.”
She’d noticed the hesitation in his voice and shot him a puzzled look as she handed him her scarf and gloves.
“To be honest,” he admitted, “they’re not exactly expecting you. I didn’t know how to tell them I’d hired a private eye. Hamish can be a bit touchy.”
“For heaven’s sake, Zol, you make me sound like an ill- mannered ex-cop out of a paperback novel.”
“Tell Hamish about your
New England Journals
. You’ll melt his pedantic little heart.”
CHAPTER 10
The next morning Zol arose feeling anxious and impatient. Anxious about having to face Douglas Matheson, Delia Smart’s husband. Impatient to get the interview over with and perhaps clear the pall hanging over The Bard’s Table and its dodgy meat. He dispatched Max to the TV room for a festival of Saturday-morning cartoons as soon as their last mouthfuls disappeared from their breakfast cereal bowls. He put the cartons of milk and juice in the fridge, picked up Dr. Osler’s Parker, and tried to jot down a list of questions for Douglas Matheson.
He found himself too distracted by thoughts of Colleen to concentrate on his task. When she’d stepped into the living room last evening, scented with jasmine and armed with a bottle of African Amarula, Hamish had greeted her with a frown. He was barely civil when Zol introduced her as a private investigator who would be consulting on the case. Hamish didn’t say it, but it was clear that he considered their CJD cluster strictly a medical matter, not the purview of a private eye better suited to photographing wayward husbands cavorting with their mistresses. But Hamish started to come around when Colleen explained that she once managed her husband’s internal-medicine practice; he softened when he heardshe hadn’t had the heart to cancel her husband’s weekly subscription to the
New England Journal of Medicine
; he sat agape when she told him that she still read the editorials and the abstracts before placing every issue in Liam’s former study. Anyone in possession of a decade’s worth of
NEJM
s neatly ordered in a personal library secured Hamish’s immediate respect as a kindred spirit. Colleen had been quick to admit that she couldn’t explain the biochemistry of prions, but she proved to be fully aware of the infectious link between British cattle falling sick and the kingdom’s smouldering epidemic of human CJD . Yes, she was definitely going to be an asset to this case.
“Would you like a coffee, Dr. Szabo?” Douglas Matheson said to Zol an hour later as Matheson led the way to his living room in Dundas, the crunchy-granola town that huddled next to Hamilton and liked to think of itself as a Victorian village housing Caledonian’s professors and patrons of the arts. “I’ve learned to become quite independent in the kitchen since Delia took sick.”
Zol had drunk enough caffeine for one day. He didn’t need to add to the jitters he already felt. It was going to be tough to sift through the domestic details of a much-celebrated life he’d once seen as untouchable. The chore would be all the more complicated if Douglas Matheson recognized him from The Bard’s Table.
“Thank you, no,” Zol said. “Unless you happen to have decaf.”
“That’s all I ever drink. I’ll be back in a jiff.”
While the silver-haired gentleman padded off to the kitchen, Zol stole the moment to review his plans for the day. Too bad Ermalinda wasn’t free to mind Max the entire day; she had some sort of pressing commitment for the afternoon. After this visit with Douglas Matheson, he had to be home in time to give Max his lunch and get him to his swimming lesson for two thirty. Then they had to complete their weekly marketing at Four Corners FineFoods before it closed at five. It was never a quick trip because Max liked a say in everything they would be eating
She’d noticed the hesitation in his voice and shot him a puzzled look as she handed him her scarf and gloves.
“To be honest,” he admitted, “they’re not exactly expecting you. I didn’t know how to tell them I’d hired a private eye. Hamish can be a bit touchy.”
“For heaven’s sake, Zol, you make me sound like an ill- mannered ex-cop out of a paperback novel.”
“Tell Hamish about your
New England Journals
. You’ll melt his pedantic little heart.”
CHAPTER 10
The next morning Zol arose feeling anxious and impatient. Anxious about having to face Douglas Matheson, Delia Smart’s husband. Impatient to get the interview over with and perhaps clear the pall hanging over The Bard’s Table and its dodgy meat. He dispatched Max to the TV room for a festival of Saturday-morning cartoons as soon as their last mouthfuls disappeared from their breakfast cereal bowls. He put the cartons of milk and juice in the fridge, picked up Dr. Osler’s Parker, and tried to jot down a list of questions for Douglas Matheson.
He found himself too distracted by thoughts of Colleen to concentrate on his task. When she’d stepped into the living room last evening, scented with jasmine and armed with a bottle of African Amarula, Hamish had greeted her with a frown. He was barely civil when Zol introduced her as a private investigator who would be consulting on the case. Hamish didn’t say it, but it was clear that he considered their CJD cluster strictly a medical matter, not the purview of a private eye better suited to photographing wayward husbands cavorting with their mistresses. But Hamish started to come around when Colleen explained that she once managed her husband’s internal-medicine practice; he softened when he heardshe hadn’t had the heart to cancel her husband’s weekly subscription to the
New England Journal of Medicine
; he sat agape when she told him that she still read the editorials and the abstracts before placing every issue in Liam’s former study. Anyone in possession of a decade’s worth of
NEJM
s neatly ordered in a personal library secured Hamish’s immediate respect as a kindred spirit. Colleen had been quick to admit that she couldn’t explain the biochemistry of prions, but she proved to be fully aware of the infectious link between British cattle falling sick and the kingdom’s smouldering epidemic of human CJD . Yes, she was definitely going to be an asset to this case.
“Would you like a coffee, Dr. Szabo?” Douglas Matheson said to Zol an hour later as Matheson led the way to his living room in Dundas, the crunchy-granola town that huddled next to Hamilton and liked to think of itself as a Victorian village housing Caledonian’s professors and patrons of the arts. “I’ve learned to become quite independent in the kitchen since Delia took sick.”
Zol had drunk enough caffeine for one day. He didn’t need to add to the jitters he already felt. It was going to be tough to sift through the domestic details of a much-celebrated life he’d once seen as untouchable. The chore would be all the more complicated if Douglas Matheson recognized him from The Bard’s Table.
“Thank you, no,” Zol said. “Unless you happen to have decaf.”
“That’s all I ever drink. I’ll be back in a jiff.”
While the silver-haired gentleman padded off to the kitchen, Zol stole the moment to review his plans for the day. Too bad Ermalinda wasn’t free to mind Max the entire day; she had some sort of pressing commitment for the afternoon. After this visit with Douglas Matheson, he had to be home in time to give Max his lunch and get him to his swimming lesson for two thirty. Then they had to complete their weekly marketing at Four Corners FineFoods before it closed at five. It was never a quick trip because Max liked a say in everything they would be eating
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