Part 17 (2/2)
The kitchen emitted a bark. Not the kitchen really, but a dog out of my sight. Either that or Elly did very good animal imitations.
I stuck my head in.
”New family member?” I inquired.
”Michele Knight, private eye, this is Beowulf, hound dog,” Elly introduced.
”Half-hound,” Danny added. ”Some mutt jumped Dad's fence and got Jupiter pregnant. Since he couldn't sell half-breeds...”
”We took him in,” Elly finished. ”We couldn't pa.s.s up those pleading brown eyes.”
”Hey, Beowulf, old boy,” I said, kneeling down to pet him. He wagged his tale in approval. He was a handsome dog, brown and white, with, as Elly had noted, deep, intelligent brown eyes.
”He has been fascinated by the crabs,” Danny said.
”A yet to be pinched fascination,” Elly added with a wry smile.
”You are a pretty dog,” I told him as I stood back up.
”Want one? Dad's got two more left,” Danny offered.
”No thanks. One cat is enough. Besides, you know my hours.”
”Too well,” Danny replied archly.
I went back into the living room and put on the Brandenburg Concertos to lend a cultured air to this affair. Danny nodded approval at my choice.
The doorbell rang. Danny let in Ranson and a woman I guessed had to be Alexandra Sayers. Ranson waved at me and went into the kitchen with her oysters.
”Do you two know each other?” Danny asked, looking at the two of us.
”We've talked on the phone, I believe,” I replied.
”Yes, we did. I'm so sorry we didn't get there in time,” she answered.
Alex Sayers was a good bit shorter than Ranson, with light brown hair, a few hardly noticeable freckles, and clear blue eyes. She wore gla.s.ses, the kind with a thin gold frame, which served to make her look intellectual. This woman had to be very smart to get to where she was.
Women aren't just handed positions of power in this city; even if ”all”
* 124 *
she was, was the Mayor's Special a.s.sistant on Arts and Culture, she still carried a good deal of clout.
I knew that by ”in time” she meant Barbara more than she meant me. I was glad that Barbara hadn't been forgotten.
”I don't think I could do what you do,” she continued. ”I would have died of fright down in that bas.e.m.e.nt. Joanne drove me out there one day last week and showed it to me.”
The grand tour. Ranson, you're such a romantic.
”Then it all evens out,” I said, ”Because I don't think I could do what you do. Always dressing up, sitting in meetings with men who make Genghis Khan look liberal. Good thing we each do what we do.”
She laughed and agreed, then went into the kitchen to help Ranson make her wonderful oyster sauce.
Yes, indeed, it appeared to be a den of couples that I was trapped in. I was badly outnumbered. And unless this dinner got a good deal more interesting than seemed possible at the moment, I was going to have to come up with some solitary way to spend Sunday. Danny could have mentioned this when she invited me. But I suspect her strategy was to force me to watch all these other couples being blissfully happy in the hopes that it would inspire me to heat up my search for Ms.
Right. Wrong, Danny, I vowed. I decided to be subtly obnoxious. I found some Strauss waltzes and put them on. Nice and romantic for these couples.
The doorbell rang and Cordelia and Th.o.r.eau were let in by Danny.
We said h.e.l.lo and I was introduced to him. Danny opened a bottle of champagne and poured a gla.s.s for us all.
”'The Blue Danube,' I believe,” Th.o.r.eau commented on the music. ”Johann Strauss.”
Well, he knew something about music, but not as much as he thought he did.
”'The Kaiser Waltz,'” I corrected. At least he had the composer right.
”Are you sure?” he asked me.
”I'm positive it's the 'Kaiser (or Emperor) Waltz,'” I explained clearly, ”because I used to listen to it all the time when I was younger and besides, it's my record, so I do know what's on it.”
* 125 *
He also wore a reddish-colored s.h.i.+rt that didn't go at all well with his complexion, just like my despised cousin Bayard.
We finally settled the matter by taking the record off the turntable and looking at it.
”They sound a lot alike,” was his only comment on being proven wrong.
Only to an idiot, I thought. I put on a tape of Baroque trumpet concertos, hopefully all obscure enough not to provoke any controversy.
Danny came around filling up champagne gla.s.ses, giving me a ”behave”
look as she went by.
”Time to start the crabs,” she said, and she and Elly went back to the kitchen. Ranson and Alex drifted back out, setting an oyster c.o.c.ktail at each place setting.
”Mick, come in here,” Danny's voice demanded.
I went into the kitchen, wondering what I had done now. It wasn't me, but an escaped crab that needed attending to. Crabs have to be kept alive until they're cooked. There was a big washtub full of live crabs set on the counter next to the stove. One crab was putting up a fight. It had gotten away and scuttled across the floor into a corner and was daring all comers with two snapping pincers.
Beowulf was fascinated by the waving claws. He started edging closer, sniffing at it with his unprotected nose. I suggested that someone put him out on the porch.
”You don't want to do that,” Elly said to him as she clipped his leash to his collar and led him out the back door. Danny followed with a bowl of food to keep him placated at being put out.
Danny obviously expected me to catch the crab. Which I did. I used the point of my boot to spin it out of the corner, them I bent down and grabbed it just in front of its swimmers, where it couldn't reach me with its claws. I did it one-handed, not to show off (not much), but because that was the way I had learned to catch crabs. Alas, poor crab.
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