indulge himself this afternoon, since tonight at dinner would spell his doom—at least with the Graces of the world. He’d call Esther and warn her that he was bringing an extra guest, let her know Grace was his decorator. He could finesse it. He could make Esther and her single middle-aged friend think that Grace was nothing more than his decorator and there for professional reasons. It would be fine. It had to be. She was so young in every sense of the word, and he was so old in all the ways possible.
At least he could handle dinner. He mentally cracked his knuckles.
“Capital idea,” he said. “But only because I don’t own a car.”
She looked horrified. “But why not? I don’t think I ever met a grown man who didn’t own a car.”
“I’ve gotten rather used to being chauffeured around, I’m afraid.” He buttoned the top button of his shirt again, decided to forget about the cuff links, and grabbed the jacket he’d discarded earlier.
“Well in that case, you’re excused. A chauffeur is better than a car.”
He didn’t have the heart to mention to her that Dick Tracy was his current “chauffeur.”
“I’m really looking forward to tonight’s dinner. It should be really special.”
“You have no idea,” he thought. He closed the door behind them.
Chapter 4
A T 102 Newbury Street, David held one of the heavy etched-glass doors of the art gallery open for Grace. They walked into a room that was a few degrees cooler than was comfortable, in more ways than one. It was one of those places gauged to immediately make a normal person feel culturally ignorant. They were definitely in the right place.
Grace preceded him into the middle of the room, which was filled with art displays of every kind without being cluttered. She seemed unaffected by the intimidating nature of the place—apparently in her element as a decorator. It was funny that he never thought of her as an artsy type—neither the sophisticated kind nor the eccentric kind.
She strode between the displays, and he followed her to a corner where, behind a sleek desk, a sprightly thirty-five-ish man rose from his chair with a smile. Of course, he was looking at Grace.
“Hello, Lester. Thanks for talking to us. This is David Young. He’s a special consultant to the Boston Police Department,” she said with particular reverence, or so it sounded to David.
Lester shook David’s hand and invited them into his back room to chat, but not before hitting a button behind his desk that caused the pronounced clicking sound of the lock on the gallery doors.
“Lester, I didn’t get your last name,” David said. It couldn’t really be Lump.
Lester made a face. “If you must know. Lester Lump. I don’t go around advertising it. I’m known throughout the art world merely as Lester L.” He gave a knowing nod to Grace.
“I see,” David said and meant it.
“What can I do for you, my lovely? Something to do with an Aquinas vase, you said?” Lester spoke to Grace, but David decided not to let that deter him from asking his questions.
“Yes. I’m investigating the recent murder of Nick Racer, a New York City detective who recently purchased this vase at the New York branch of your gallery. We’d like to know the details of his purchase: cost, date, who sold it to him.”
“All business, I see. Anything for a friend of Gracie’s. Let me log onto the computer.” Lester sat on a curved piece of leather that passed for a stool in front of his computer. “I know we didn’t sell it to him from here because we only have one and it’s still on the floor.” He clicked away at the keys. David couldn’t help admire his keyboard skills, which were completely missing from his own otherwise impressive repertoire of talents.
Grace stepped closer and said for his ears only, “I like how you thought of all those questions and took charge.” She was serious—he thought. He was momentarily stunned into a loss for words.
Then Lester Lump
At least he could handle dinner. He mentally cracked his knuckles.
“Capital idea,” he said. “But only because I don’t own a car.”
She looked horrified. “But why not? I don’t think I ever met a grown man who didn’t own a car.”
“I’ve gotten rather used to being chauffeured around, I’m afraid.” He buttoned the top button of his shirt again, decided to forget about the cuff links, and grabbed the jacket he’d discarded earlier.
“Well in that case, you’re excused. A chauffeur is better than a car.”
He didn’t have the heart to mention to her that Dick Tracy was his current “chauffeur.”
“I’m really looking forward to tonight’s dinner. It should be really special.”
“You have no idea,” he thought. He closed the door behind them.
Chapter 4
A T 102 Newbury Street, David held one of the heavy etched-glass doors of the art gallery open for Grace. They walked into a room that was a few degrees cooler than was comfortable, in more ways than one. It was one of those places gauged to immediately make a normal person feel culturally ignorant. They were definitely in the right place.
Grace preceded him into the middle of the room, which was filled with art displays of every kind without being cluttered. She seemed unaffected by the intimidating nature of the place—apparently in her element as a decorator. It was funny that he never thought of her as an artsy type—neither the sophisticated kind nor the eccentric kind.
She strode between the displays, and he followed her to a corner where, behind a sleek desk, a sprightly thirty-five-ish man rose from his chair with a smile. Of course, he was looking at Grace.
“Hello, Lester. Thanks for talking to us. This is David Young. He’s a special consultant to the Boston Police Department,” she said with particular reverence, or so it sounded to David.
Lester shook David’s hand and invited them into his back room to chat, but not before hitting a button behind his desk that caused the pronounced clicking sound of the lock on the gallery doors.
“Lester, I didn’t get your last name,” David said. It couldn’t really be Lump.
Lester made a face. “If you must know. Lester Lump. I don’t go around advertising it. I’m known throughout the art world merely as Lester L.” He gave a knowing nod to Grace.
“I see,” David said and meant it.
“What can I do for you, my lovely? Something to do with an Aquinas vase, you said?” Lester spoke to Grace, but David decided not to let that deter him from asking his questions.
“Yes. I’m investigating the recent murder of Nick Racer, a New York City detective who recently purchased this vase at the New York branch of your gallery. We’d like to know the details of his purchase: cost, date, who sold it to him.”
“All business, I see. Anything for a friend of Gracie’s. Let me log onto the computer.” Lester sat on a curved piece of leather that passed for a stool in front of his computer. “I know we didn’t sell it to him from here because we only have one and it’s still on the floor.” He clicked away at the keys. David couldn’t help admire his keyboard skills, which were completely missing from his own otherwise impressive repertoire of talents.
Grace stepped closer and said for his ears only, “I like how you thought of all those questions and took charge.” She was serious—he thought. He was momentarily stunned into a loss for words.
Then Lester Lump
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