Read Online This Case Is Gonna Kill Me by Phillipa Bornikova - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Phillipa Bornikova
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flicking my eyes between the monotonous rise and fall of the horses and nervously scanning the crowds for werewolves. The nasal toot of the calliope playing a spritely waltz was an odd counterpoint to the shrieks of joy or terror erupting from the urchins on the prancing horses. Somewhere nearby, a Jamaican steel drum band was playing, and in another direction I heard the breathy sound of a Peruvian flute.
Food vendors pushed their carts along the paved paths of the park. The smells of pretzels and hotdogs warred for primacy. Added to that was the pungent smell of horse manure from the carriage horses waiting patiently at the curbs and clopping slowly through the park, as the drivers cranked around and gave their spiels to the tourists riding behind them.
My phone rang. An hour ago, the constant calls from the press had stopped. There had either been another salacious murder or sex scandal to replace mine, or the reporters had given up. They were probably writing that I’d been implicated in Chip’s murder, out of spite.
But this call was from a friend. Ray was on the line. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Watching the carousel go round and round.”
“Well, get over to our place.”
“I thought you were performing?”
“I called in sick and convinced Greg to put off Dr. Findle. Dinner on the roof, and fireworks to follow. You know we have a great view from our place.”
“What can I bring?” I asked automatically.
“Don’t be an idiot. Just yourself, of course.”
He hung up. I put away my phone and headed for the edge of the park and taxis. I hadn’t heard from my father, which made me feel teary all over again. Where was he? Well, he could find me at Ray and Gregory’s. With cell phones no one was really ever out of touch. Unless they were in Dubai.
5
Ray handed me another mojito. I’d started with a margarita, but Ray had insisted I try his “fabulous” mojitos. He was making them with saki, rum, and fresh mint plucked from the pots that dotted the rooftop garden. Traffic sounds floated up from the streets seventeen stories below us. It was a clear night, and I could see Jupiter even through the city’s light haze.
Gregory and Ray lived on the edge of Wall Street in a top-floor apartment. They had been given permission by the building owner to put up a cedar fence on one quarter of the roof, which they turned into a garden. Most rooftop gardens in Manhattan are paltry affairs: a table and two chairs, a few potted plants, and a hibachi. Ray and Gregory had thrown themselves into the project. It didn’t hurt that Gregory came from money, and the money flowed to him so long as he stayed far, far away from the rest of his rock-ribbed Republican family back in Kansas.
Dwarf orange trees grew in large pots, and small, sparkling white lights had been strung through their branches. A row of box planters held herbs—mint, sage, oregano, basil, thyme, dill, tarragon, parsley, chives, and rosemary. Gregory was quite the chef, and he heaped scorn on my little turntable of bottled herbs.
Another box held tomatoes, the branches heavy with green fruit tied to poles. The shape of the poles made them look like tomato teepees. Other pots and planters held a riot of flowers—deep red geraniums, dusty miller, vinca, petunias, Canterbury bells, and lavender.
The table was set with china and flatware, and a candle flickering in a Chinese lantern provided area lighting. There was the occasional sizzle and hiss from the leg of lamb on the grill. The smell of roasting meat marinated in olive oil and herbs mingled with the scent of foil-wrapped corn roasting in the coals and the cinnamon-and-fruit smell from the freshly baked apple pie that sat on a small serving table.
I was stretched out on a lounge chair. Gregory huddled over the Weber grill, sipping a scotch on the rocks, and Ray handled bar duties—which was why I now held his signature mojito. I took a sip. The soda water laid a pleasant fizz
Food vendors pushed their carts along the paved paths of the park. The smells of pretzels and hotdogs warred for primacy. Added to that was the pungent smell of horse manure from the carriage horses waiting patiently at the curbs and clopping slowly through the park, as the drivers cranked around and gave their spiels to the tourists riding behind them.
My phone rang. An hour ago, the constant calls from the press had stopped. There had either been another salacious murder or sex scandal to replace mine, or the reporters had given up. They were probably writing that I’d been implicated in Chip’s murder, out of spite.
But this call was from a friend. Ray was on the line. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Watching the carousel go round and round.”
“Well, get over to our place.”
“I thought you were performing?”
“I called in sick and convinced Greg to put off Dr. Findle. Dinner on the roof, and fireworks to follow. You know we have a great view from our place.”
“What can I bring?” I asked automatically.
“Don’t be an idiot. Just yourself, of course.”
He hung up. I put away my phone and headed for the edge of the park and taxis. I hadn’t heard from my father, which made me feel teary all over again. Where was he? Well, he could find me at Ray and Gregory’s. With cell phones no one was really ever out of touch. Unless they were in Dubai.
5
Ray handed me another mojito. I’d started with a margarita, but Ray had insisted I try his “fabulous” mojitos. He was making them with saki, rum, and fresh mint plucked from the pots that dotted the rooftop garden. Traffic sounds floated up from the streets seventeen stories below us. It was a clear night, and I could see Jupiter even through the city’s light haze.
Gregory and Ray lived on the edge of Wall Street in a top-floor apartment. They had been given permission by the building owner to put up a cedar fence on one quarter of the roof, which they turned into a garden. Most rooftop gardens in Manhattan are paltry affairs: a table and two chairs, a few potted plants, and a hibachi. Ray and Gregory had thrown themselves into the project. It didn’t hurt that Gregory came from money, and the money flowed to him so long as he stayed far, far away from the rest of his rock-ribbed Republican family back in Kansas.
Dwarf orange trees grew in large pots, and small, sparkling white lights had been strung through their branches. A row of box planters held herbs—mint, sage, oregano, basil, thyme, dill, tarragon, parsley, chives, and rosemary. Gregory was quite the chef, and he heaped scorn on my little turntable of bottled herbs.
Another box held tomatoes, the branches heavy with green fruit tied to poles. The shape of the poles made them look like tomato teepees. Other pots and planters held a riot of flowers—deep red geraniums, dusty miller, vinca, petunias, Canterbury bells, and lavender.
The table was set with china and flatware, and a candle flickering in a Chinese lantern provided area lighting. There was the occasional sizzle and hiss from the leg of lamb on the grill. The smell of roasting meat marinated in olive oil and herbs mingled with the scent of foil-wrapped corn roasting in the coals and the cinnamon-and-fruit smell from the freshly baked apple pie that sat on a small serving table.
I was stretched out on a lounge chair. Gregory huddled over the Weber grill, sipping a scotch on the rocks, and Ray handled bar duties—which was why I now held his signature mojito. I took a sip. The soda water laid a pleasant fizz
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