The Hammett Hex by Victoria Abbott Page A

that she was the person who’d lined up my shoes precisely on the closet floor and arranged my notebook, camera and sightseeing books neatly on the desk. I was glad I’d left her a tip at our previous room. She or someone had shaped our fluffy facecloths into swans.
    My toiletry bag was hanging on the back of the door in the huge marble bathroom. They were falling all over themselves to make it right.
    â€œYou’re working long hours,” I said as she backed out of the room.
    â€œI need to,” she said as she left.
    I sat on the crisp white duvet on my new king-size bed and told myself to get it together. This was a vacation and one we both needed. It was a chance to rebuild trust. Eventhough we’d had our hotel rooms trashed in what seemed like a very personal way and even though I’d been attacked by persons unknown, I had to admit Smiley and I had been through a lot worse than this.
    â€œDinner,” I said out loud, “will be the best medicine.”
    *   *   *
    I HAD A little red dress I’d been saving for a special occasion and this situation certainly needed help. The dress was cotton jersey and required some serious undergarments to make it cling in just the right places. Plus it was just long enough to cover my battered knees, a very good thing.
    A thin gold vintage belt hugged my waist. It made me feel like a femme fatale, so I was surprised that Smiley didn’t even offer a “you look nice.”
    He continued to be silent on our stroll to Magari
.
I tried to get back to the buoyant frame of mind I’d been in before the break-in, but whenever I glanced at Smiley’s closed face, the mood slipped. If this kept up, he was going to need another nickname. Surly perhaps or Grumpy.
    We passed many restaurants full of happy tourists spilling out into the street, as we left the more touristy areas and ventured into the parts of San Francisco where people actually lived. So many places to eat and we were walking past all of them. I liked the looks of the bistros in old storefronts and the eateries in converted homes. They all seemed to be overflowing with twentyish trendy locals, eating, laughing and making noise. On the main streets, we passed a surprising number of gelaterias. I love gelato. On a normal night I would have suggested that we get gelato after dinner, but this night I would be having dinner in a lovely restaurant compliments of the hotel.
    Officer Grumpy was walking slightly ahead of me, his head down, hands in pockets. If this had been our first date,it would have also been the last. But I figured Smiley was in there somewhere. As I didn’t have anyone to talk to, I could spend my time speculating about his mood.
    I didn’t have time to do much speculating when after twenty minutes—much of it uphill—we arrived at the restaurant. Magari was a traditional restaurant, heavy on the dim lighting and velvet drapes. It seemed out of step with the city. It screamed vintage 1974, which was perfect for me, of course, although it was before I was born. And the price was right. Along with the low lights, comfortable leather chairs and crisp white tablecloths, red cloth napkins and bud vases with red carnations, there was a collection of older waiters, all of whom had a tendency to bow slightly and snap their fingers at each other. Inside we found only five other couples seated, all with a good thirty years on us. At least they were having a good time. I liked the quiet clink of wineglasses and the exclamations when food arrived. The couples within my view were smilers and chatters, all caught up in each other. In fact, they all looked like lovers, not old-marrieds. Only Grumpy and I would have given the impression that we’d been married for thirty years, all of them less than happy.
    It was after nine by the time we were seated. The tall doughy waiter passed us menus with an old world flourish, bowed, lit the candle on our