Read Online Another Thing to Fall by Laura Lippman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Lippman
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7
“The lamb,” Tess decided. “And — no, yes, no — yes, a glass of wine, whatever you think best.”
Flip Tumulty, who had ordered a salad and sparkling water, gave her a hard look. Tess wasn’t sure what shocked him more, the food or the beverage. Perhaps Hollywood had only two channels on its dial — abstemious self-denial and wretched excess.
“And what can I get for you, young lady?” the waiter asked.
The third member of their party — definitely young, not so obviously a lady, not to Tess’s eyes — peered over enormous sunglasses, very Jackie O, circa Ron Galella. The glasses weren’t exactly the best way to travel incognito. She was attracting a lot of attention — or would have been, if there had been more people in Martick’s for late-afternoon lunch. Tess had chosen this determinedly obscure restaurant on the grounds that Selene Waites would be charmed by what looked like a private club. From the outside, Martick’s didn’t even appear to be open for business. There was no sign, no way of knowing it existed, and one had to buzz for entry. Of course, anyone who buzzed was promptly admitted, but Selene didn’t know that. Tess thought Selene might at least take off her sunglasses to inspect the black pressed-tin ceiling, the sturdy old bar, the stained-glass windows, all dating back to Martick’s life as a speakeasy. But Selene kept staring fixedly at her spoon. Was it dirty?
She said in a wispy monotone: “Venti half-caf frappuccino, please.”
“We don’t make cold coffee drinks here, but I could do just about anything else — cappuccino, latte, Americano, even a good old-fashioned cup of joe.”
“Who’s Captain Joe?” Selene asked, pursing her lips, eyes still trained on the spoon.
She’s using it as a little mirror,
Tess realized. Selene even bared her teeth to check if there was lipstick on them.
“Cup of joe,” Tess said. “It’s slang for coffee.”
“Why?”
It was a reasonable question, albeit one more appropriate to a two-year-old. But then, Tess was quickly discovering that Selene Waites was not that far removed from toddlerhood — a mercurial being who was all id, focused on satisfying her desires as she experienced them, determined to control anything she could, because, on some level, she sensed that she controlled nothing. This explained why Flip had warned Tess to play out the charade of letting Selene believe that it was ultimately her decision to hire Tess as her bodyguard.
Five seconds passed and Selene forgot her own question, or else grew bored with it. Her threshold for boredom was shockingly low. To call it attention deficit disorder would be inaccurate, because it wasn’t clear that Selene was attentive enough to achieve a deficit in that area. In the ten minutes they had been in the restaurant, she had already arranged her hair three different ways and applied her lipstick twice, using two different colors.
“Your order, miss?” This waiter was working hard for his tip.
“The mussels to start,” she said, her voice continuing thin and flat. Perhaps she only used inflections when she was being paid. “And the pâté, and the steak frites, with rolls. And a Bloody Mary, please. Do you have Effen?”
The waiter, a Baltimore hipster — that is, an art student at MICA — was pretty quick on the uptake. “No, we’ve got something much better, beat all the other vodkas in a taste test, very smooth, hard to find. I can’t even pronounce it.”
Selene nodded, and the waiter, aware that she wasn’t looking at him, took the chance to mouth “Smirnoff” over her oblivious head. Tess enjoyed the joke, but their conspiratorial moment gave Flip a spasm of panic.
“I admire your appetite,” Tess said to Selene. “It’s rare that I meet a woman who can match mine.”
“Well, I have a great metabolism,” Selene said, stroking her hair, styled in a side ponytail. The motion seemed to soothe her, in the manner of a child clutching the
“The lamb,” Tess decided. “And — no, yes, no — yes, a glass of wine, whatever you think best.”
Flip Tumulty, who had ordered a salad and sparkling water, gave her a hard look. Tess wasn’t sure what shocked him more, the food or the beverage. Perhaps Hollywood had only two channels on its dial — abstemious self-denial and wretched excess.
“And what can I get for you, young lady?” the waiter asked.
The third member of their party — definitely young, not so obviously a lady, not to Tess’s eyes — peered over enormous sunglasses, very Jackie O, circa Ron Galella. The glasses weren’t exactly the best way to travel incognito. She was attracting a lot of attention — or would have been, if there had been more people in Martick’s for late-afternoon lunch. Tess had chosen this determinedly obscure restaurant on the grounds that Selene Waites would be charmed by what looked like a private club. From the outside, Martick’s didn’t even appear to be open for business. There was no sign, no way of knowing it existed, and one had to buzz for entry. Of course, anyone who buzzed was promptly admitted, but Selene didn’t know that. Tess thought Selene might at least take off her sunglasses to inspect the black pressed-tin ceiling, the sturdy old bar, the stained-glass windows, all dating back to Martick’s life as a speakeasy. But Selene kept staring fixedly at her spoon. Was it dirty?
She said in a wispy monotone: “Venti half-caf frappuccino, please.”
“We don’t make cold coffee drinks here, but I could do just about anything else — cappuccino, latte, Americano, even a good old-fashioned cup of joe.”
“Who’s Captain Joe?” Selene asked, pursing her lips, eyes still trained on the spoon.
She’s using it as a little mirror,
Tess realized. Selene even bared her teeth to check if there was lipstick on them.
“Cup of joe,” Tess said. “It’s slang for coffee.”
“Why?”
It was a reasonable question, albeit one more appropriate to a two-year-old. But then, Tess was quickly discovering that Selene Waites was not that far removed from toddlerhood — a mercurial being who was all id, focused on satisfying her desires as she experienced them, determined to control anything she could, because, on some level, she sensed that she controlled nothing. This explained why Flip had warned Tess to play out the charade of letting Selene believe that it was ultimately her decision to hire Tess as her bodyguard.
Five seconds passed and Selene forgot her own question, or else grew bored with it. Her threshold for boredom was shockingly low. To call it attention deficit disorder would be inaccurate, because it wasn’t clear that Selene was attentive enough to achieve a deficit in that area. In the ten minutes they had been in the restaurant, she had already arranged her hair three different ways and applied her lipstick twice, using two different colors.
“Your order, miss?” This waiter was working hard for his tip.
“The mussels to start,” she said, her voice continuing thin and flat. Perhaps she only used inflections when she was being paid. “And the pâté, and the steak frites, with rolls. And a Bloody Mary, please. Do you have Effen?”
The waiter, a Baltimore hipster — that is, an art student at MICA — was pretty quick on the uptake. “No, we’ve got something much better, beat all the other vodkas in a taste test, very smooth, hard to find. I can’t even pronounce it.”
Selene nodded, and the waiter, aware that she wasn’t looking at him, took the chance to mouth “Smirnoff” over her oblivious head. Tess enjoyed the joke, but their conspiratorial moment gave Flip a spasm of panic.
“I admire your appetite,” Tess said to Selene. “It’s rare that I meet a woman who can match mine.”
“Well, I have a great metabolism,” Selene said, stroking her hair, styled in a side ponytail. The motion seemed to soothe her, in the manner of a child clutching the
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