Read Online Murder Well-Done by Claudia Bishop - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Claudia Bishop
Tags: Unknown, Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Women Detectives, New York (N.Y.), Sisters, Taverns (Inns)
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is heir to. Not too bad if you stay away from the pasta. They precook. Try the wood-smoked pizza. Don't' stay too long, okay? This weather's turning nasty."
"I'll be back around four-thirty. I've got to talk to Santini and Claire about the pre-wedding parties." Quill made a face.
Meg made a face back.
Quill, driving south on Route 15, was actually grateful for the storm. The plows had been through earlier in the morning, and at least three inches had fallen since then. The roads were slushy with packed drifts concealing stubborn patches of ice. Her Olds was a heavy car, with front-wheel drive, but it was slippery. She concentrated on driving until she hit the Interstate.
I-81 to Syracuse was clear and fairly dry, and Exit 56 came up too fast. She glanced at the little battery-run clock John had stuck on the dash when the car clock had died several years ago. One-thirty. She'd be early. She was never early. One of Myles's few complaints about her had been about her lateness Myles was always spot on time. Maybe she'd order a glass of sherry while she waited.
She looked at the sky, pregnant with heavy clouds. No sherry. She'd order hot tea, to keep her head clear for the drive back and her emotions under control. She parked. The lot was crowded, but she noticed Myles's Jeep Cherokee right away.
She sat in the car. Her toes got chilly as soon as she turned off the heater.
Myles would be civilized. He was always civilized. But anxious. If he was here early, it meant he was anxious. But civilized, Quill reminded herself.
The very first thing, she'd order a glass of wine, not tea. For both of them. He rarely drank during the day; a glass of wine might help both of them through this. And the order for wine would be a subtle signal, a flag that bad news was coming. Maybe without even having to say it.
Halfway across the parking lot, Quill paused in mid-slush. She knew, all too well (at least from watching Gerard Depardieu movies) the leap in the heart when a lover caught sight of his beloved across a crowded room. She could spare Myles that leap by going in the back way, scanning the crowded room for him, and quietly walking up behind him. A discreet touch on the shoulder, a welcoming but suitably depressed "hello," and then a few well-chosen sentences of farewell.
Quill resumed her march across the parking lot and went in the door marked exit. She'd find Myles. Walk up unnoticed. She'd sit. Raise her hand to forestall his kiss of greeting. Hope that the waitress would be quick, and not too perky, and not named Shirelle. Or call her honey. Then she'd order, quickly, tow glasses of merlot. No. Not merlot. Not from a restaurant that had a sign in the back room - "We Value Your Patronage - Thank You for Not Smoking." Any restaurant that valued your patronage before they got it probably bought merlot in plastic bar bags. And Meg avoided smoke-free restaurants on principle, a consequence of a year's study in Paris, where tobacco was considered a civilized finale to a meal. She'd ask for an Avalon cabernet sauvignon. It was great stuff. Not spectacular enough to make up for devastation, but it'd go a long way to assuaging what they both had to know was an intolerable situation.
The restaurant wasn't crowded at all. Of the maybe sixty tables scattered across the bleached oak floor, ten were filled. Myles saw her as soon as she walked down the hall leading to the restrooms and into the Euro-Tech ambiance of Ciao.
The blonde that was with him saw her, too.
And not just a blonde, Quill thought, suddenly conscious of her own hair, her snow-splattered boots, the muddy hem of her skirt, and, worst of all, the coat, conspicuous for its ugliness. A sophisticated blonde. With large breasts, tastefully presented behind a scoop-neck silk T. A slouchy Armani jacket. And, as she rose from the table, one of those boyishly hipped figures that made even jeans look elegant. Much less the bottom half of the Armani suit. She wasn't pretty, Quill
"I'll be back around four-thirty. I've got to talk to Santini and Claire about the pre-wedding parties." Quill made a face.
Meg made a face back.
Quill, driving south on Route 15, was actually grateful for the storm. The plows had been through earlier in the morning, and at least three inches had fallen since then. The roads were slushy with packed drifts concealing stubborn patches of ice. Her Olds was a heavy car, with front-wheel drive, but it was slippery. She concentrated on driving until she hit the Interstate.
I-81 to Syracuse was clear and fairly dry, and Exit 56 came up too fast. She glanced at the little battery-run clock John had stuck on the dash when the car clock had died several years ago. One-thirty. She'd be early. She was never early. One of Myles's few complaints about her had been about her lateness Myles was always spot on time. Maybe she'd order a glass of sherry while she waited.
She looked at the sky, pregnant with heavy clouds. No sherry. She'd order hot tea, to keep her head clear for the drive back and her emotions under control. She parked. The lot was crowded, but she noticed Myles's Jeep Cherokee right away.
She sat in the car. Her toes got chilly as soon as she turned off the heater.
Myles would be civilized. He was always civilized. But anxious. If he was here early, it meant he was anxious. But civilized, Quill reminded herself.
The very first thing, she'd order a glass of wine, not tea. For both of them. He rarely drank during the day; a glass of wine might help both of them through this. And the order for wine would be a subtle signal, a flag that bad news was coming. Maybe without even having to say it.
Halfway across the parking lot, Quill paused in mid-slush. She knew, all too well (at least from watching Gerard Depardieu movies) the leap in the heart when a lover caught sight of his beloved across a crowded room. She could spare Myles that leap by going in the back way, scanning the crowded room for him, and quietly walking up behind him. A discreet touch on the shoulder, a welcoming but suitably depressed "hello," and then a few well-chosen sentences of farewell.
Quill resumed her march across the parking lot and went in the door marked exit. She'd find Myles. Walk up unnoticed. She'd sit. Raise her hand to forestall his kiss of greeting. Hope that the waitress would be quick, and not too perky, and not named Shirelle. Or call her honey. Then she'd order, quickly, tow glasses of merlot. No. Not merlot. Not from a restaurant that had a sign in the back room - "We Value Your Patronage - Thank You for Not Smoking." Any restaurant that valued your patronage before they got it probably bought merlot in plastic bar bags. And Meg avoided smoke-free restaurants on principle, a consequence of a year's study in Paris, where tobacco was considered a civilized finale to a meal. She'd ask for an Avalon cabernet sauvignon. It was great stuff. Not spectacular enough to make up for devastation, but it'd go a long way to assuaging what they both had to know was an intolerable situation.
The restaurant wasn't crowded at all. Of the maybe sixty tables scattered across the bleached oak floor, ten were filled. Myles saw her as soon as she walked down the hall leading to the restrooms and into the Euro-Tech ambiance of Ciao.
The blonde that was with him saw her, too.
And not just a blonde, Quill thought, suddenly conscious of her own hair, her snow-splattered boots, the muddy hem of her skirt, and, worst of all, the coat, conspicuous for its ugliness. A sophisticated blonde. With large breasts, tastefully presented behind a scoop-neck silk T. A slouchy Armani jacket. And, as she rose from the table, one of those boyishly hipped figures that made even jeans look elegant. Much less the bottom half of the Armani suit. She wasn't pretty, Quill
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