Read Online Gone Fishing by Susan Duncan - Free Book Online Page A

onto the deck. ‘He’s happier on his own. He’s a chef and I’m a cook, both noble in their way, but with little in common beyond ingredients. God,’ she adds, referring to Marcus and smiling brightly, ‘how did I ever get so lucky? Fifty-five years old and he calls me a girl. Love, thank the lord, is blind.’
    â€˜I’m so sorry, Ettie . . .’ Kate says.
    Ettie reaches across the table for Kate’s hands, holds them tightly in hers. ‘Next time, call me. I was worried something had happened to you,’ she says softly. ‘There’s always a fall-back position but I need to know what’s going on.’ She lets go and leans against the back of her chair, eyes closed, letting the sun wash over her, enjoying an unaccustomed break. ‘So how did it go with the lawyer yesterday? Any nasty shocks? ’
    â€˜Nothing unexpected.’
    Ettie stirs from her languor. That’s it? she thinks. Kate disappears for a whole day on the basis of nothing unexpected ? Ettie frowns. Checks out Kate’s body language: back ramrod straight, eyes focused on the table. She’s lying, Ettie thinks, tilting her head sideways, considering whether to push for more information or to leave it alone. Before she can make up her mind, the chef swoops on them, plates balanced on his arm as if they’re glued in place. With a theatrical flourish, he delivers five-star service. ‘Two coffees. Two of my exquisite almond croissants. Two each, of course. One is never enough.’
    â€˜The ego of the man,’ Ettie says, when he’s gone. She’s laughing. Happy. Rips off a corner of her croissant, chewing with her eyes closed. Ecstatic again. She mentally gives the subject of Kate and her mother’s will the flick. If Kate wants to tell her, she will when the time is right.
    â€˜Now . . . Let’s move on. We’ve got a business to run. OK? Eat your pastry or Marcus will be offended. If you can’t eat both, I’ll help you out.’
    â€˜Ettie!’ Marcus Allender roars from the kitchen, his normally velvety tone so distraught that Ettie leaps to her feet, almost knocking over the table. Kate follows at a run.
    Inside, the chef’s tope is askew; he twists the corner of his apron, points to a corner near the soft-drinks fridge. ‘You have a rat in this kitchen. Look. There. Shit. A rat has made this shape of a poo. I know these things.’ The chef’s voice has climbed an octave, he’s reverted to a strong German accent, he looks about to collapse.
    â€˜God, is that all?’ Ettie says, relieved, the colour coming back into her face. ‘I thought you’d had a heart attack. I’ll find a trap. He’ll be gone by tomorrow, Marcus. I promise you.’
    The chef dabs his neck, flushed lobster red, with his trademark black-checked kerchief – a remnant from his glory days – then stuffs it back into his breast pocket and frowns at Ettie. ‘This is serious, my pet. This rat can close you down. He must be gone quickly.’
    Feeling like he’s travelled into territory so foreign he should have brought his passport (if he owned one), Sam feeds a small fortune into a parking meter that allows him exactly half an hour to do his business. As he’s a fair way from his destination, he almost jogs to the address on the flyer. He’d read the penalty notice. The fine was worth four hours of Jimmy’s labour on the Mary Kay . He picks up his speed.
    At the end of a long corridor in an aging building dwarfed by downtown’s plate-glass skyscrapers, built before the money stream dried up in a global fiscal meltdown, he finds black lettering peeling off a smoky window. New Planet Fountain of Youth . Fountain of Youth? Bollocks. Varnish from the bottom half of the door flakes at his feet. Shysters, he thinks. The whole development plan is a scam. Someone testing the water. Nothing to worry