finishing off the last of the paperwork in a now mercifully empty store, George called. “It was your turn to call me today,” he said. “What happened?”
“Mrs. Kaftan.”
“She came back?”
“For a comprehensive repeat performance,” Annabelle said, weary.
“Same deal as yesterday?”
“Same deal. But, Georgie, this is taking on a decidedly supernormal turn. She shows on the security videos, all right. But not coming in, and not going out.”
“And the same thing with the scrolls?”
“That’s right. And the same fire,” Annabelle said, ruefully looking at the spot which she had once again had to scrub: this time the floor covering had blistered. “This time I couldn’t keep the water from hitting the cookbooks in the front: half of them are ruined. And she was even loonier than the last time, George. You’d think she’d have dropped her asking price a little for those scrolls, but no, she wanted the same amount, I think she’s fixated on the number for some reason—”
George didn’t say anything. “Hello?” Annabelle said, wondering if she’d lost the connection.
“No, I’m still here. Belle,” George said, “are you saying that she had only— how many of those did she have today?”
“Five or six—No, six, she said six….”
“And she wanted the same price? You’re sure about that?”
“To the penny,” Annabelle said. “She was really definite about it. I almost laughed. Her and her seventy-six cents—”
George didn’t say anything. “George?” Annabelle said.
“Belle,” George said, “I have to make a few phone calls. Then you need to close up early. Can you make an excuse?”
“I don’t think that would be much of a problem,” Annabelle said, for Mr. Farnsworth had just walked by outside again, and was giving her one of those odd looks that she suspected was going to mean trouble sooner or later. And right now, later looked good. “But where am I going?”
“We. Out to lunch.”
“Isn’t it kind of late for that?”
“I’m hoping not,” George said.
*
He actually came to pick her up in his car, which was unusual—George detested driving in the city—and drove her north of Madison. He made inconsequential law-office talk for most of the short drive, discussing the ghost’s cease-and-desist letter with the air of someone who was actually thinking hard about something else. “Where we’re going,” George said finally, as he waited at an intersection for the light to change, “it may get loud. Don’t get scared, that’s all I can say.”
“Scared? Of lunch? Why would I get scared?” Annabelle said.
He pulled over to the curb and sat looking at a storefront with a frosted plateglass window and a frosted plateglass door. “You’ll find out,” he said.
They got out of the car, George locked up, and they walked over to that glass door. Only when she saw the tiny clear glass letters set at eye level above the door handle did Annabelle start to understand what was happening. The letters said S P Q R.
Annabelle’s mouth dropped open. “Good Lady above,” she said, “do you eat here ?”
“Every Saturday,” George said.
“No wonder you need to be a lawyer,” Annabelle said under her breath. If you could get into the place, which normally meant reserving two months ahead, the prices on SPQR’s menu were such that it was rare for mere mortals to be able to afford a meal there without going into escrow.
“It’s all right,” George said, opening that severely plain door for Annabelle. “I also play poker here every Saturday. And the chef believes in luck… which is unfortunate when one of the people at the table is a card-counter.” George grinned. “In you go.”
In Annabelle went. She had seen pictures of that stark interior in the Tribune, but the pictures in the Trib could not convey the contrast that the glass-and-white starkness made with the lush Italianate aromas that, even after lunchtime was properly
“Mrs. Kaftan.”
“She came back?”
“For a comprehensive repeat performance,” Annabelle said, weary.
“Same deal as yesterday?”
“Same deal. But, Georgie, this is taking on a decidedly supernormal turn. She shows on the security videos, all right. But not coming in, and not going out.”
“And the same thing with the scrolls?”
“That’s right. And the same fire,” Annabelle said, ruefully looking at the spot which she had once again had to scrub: this time the floor covering had blistered. “This time I couldn’t keep the water from hitting the cookbooks in the front: half of them are ruined. And she was even loonier than the last time, George. You’d think she’d have dropped her asking price a little for those scrolls, but no, she wanted the same amount, I think she’s fixated on the number for some reason—”
George didn’t say anything. “Hello?” Annabelle said, wondering if she’d lost the connection.
“No, I’m still here. Belle,” George said, “are you saying that she had only— how many of those did she have today?”
“Five or six—No, six, she said six….”
“And she wanted the same price? You’re sure about that?”
“To the penny,” Annabelle said. “She was really definite about it. I almost laughed. Her and her seventy-six cents—”
George didn’t say anything. “George?” Annabelle said.
“Belle,” George said, “I have to make a few phone calls. Then you need to close up early. Can you make an excuse?”
“I don’t think that would be much of a problem,” Annabelle said, for Mr. Farnsworth had just walked by outside again, and was giving her one of those odd looks that she suspected was going to mean trouble sooner or later. And right now, later looked good. “But where am I going?”
“We. Out to lunch.”
“Isn’t it kind of late for that?”
“I’m hoping not,” George said.
*
He actually came to pick her up in his car, which was unusual—George detested driving in the city—and drove her north of Madison. He made inconsequential law-office talk for most of the short drive, discussing the ghost’s cease-and-desist letter with the air of someone who was actually thinking hard about something else. “Where we’re going,” George said finally, as he waited at an intersection for the light to change, “it may get loud. Don’t get scared, that’s all I can say.”
“Scared? Of lunch? Why would I get scared?” Annabelle said.
He pulled over to the curb and sat looking at a storefront with a frosted plateglass window and a frosted plateglass door. “You’ll find out,” he said.
They got out of the car, George locked up, and they walked over to that glass door. Only when she saw the tiny clear glass letters set at eye level above the door handle did Annabelle start to understand what was happening. The letters said S P Q R.
Annabelle’s mouth dropped open. “Good Lady above,” she said, “do you eat here ?”
“Every Saturday,” George said.
“No wonder you need to be a lawyer,” Annabelle said under her breath. If you could get into the place, which normally meant reserving two months ahead, the prices on SPQR’s menu were such that it was rare for mere mortals to be able to afford a meal there without going into escrow.
“It’s all right,” George said, opening that severely plain door for Annabelle. “I also play poker here every Saturday. And the chef believes in luck… which is unfortunate when one of the people at the table is a card-counter.” George grinned. “In you go.”
In Annabelle went. She had seen pictures of that stark interior in the Tribune, but the pictures in the Trib could not convey the contrast that the glass-and-white starkness made with the lush Italianate aromas that, even after lunchtime was properly
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