Laurie King Kate Martinelli 05 The Art Of Detection

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green eyes shifted--but clearly she was searching her surroundings for
something, or someone. And not finding them.
This intrigued me in a way her professional demeanour had not. Billy Birdsong
was the most prominent person in the place; why should she give the most
surreptitious of glances at her surroundings? She could easily rise up and
gaze imperiously about, and no one would be taken aback.
Either she did not wish to offend me, or she did not wish to be seen looking
about. And although I could indeed have represented a potential source of
patronage, her lack of interest made that seem unlikely.
No; she was scouring the room for someone, a face she did not want to be seen
searching out, and she was not finding that person. Furthermore, that absence
made her increasingly anxious: While her eyes probed the corners of the
balconies, her fingers sought out the large, beautifully mounted pink pearl
she wore on a silver chain, tugging at it and rolling it between finger and
thumb.
When her hand rose to her mouth and her sharp little teeth began to work at
the cuticles of the finger holding the pearl, I knew something was amiss.
Miss Birdsong, I began.
Call me Billy, she broke in. Everybody does.
Yes. Miss Birdsong, you appear to be agitated. May I be of any help?
At that, her gaze snapped back to me, her spine went straight, and her gnawed
finger dropped away. Agitated? Don t be ridiculous, she protested, and
laughed. Why should I be agitated while I m sitting with admirers and
drinking their bubbly? Silly man.
One thing I am not is silly, and I believe she saw that, despite the setting
and my proximity to the pick-pocketing ne er-do-well at the other side of the
table. She laughed again, a well-trained noise, finished her champagne, and
rose to make a wide and easy circuit of the balcony before retreating down the
stairs.
Butla donna � mobile , even whenla donna is an artifice, and thus I was not
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in the least surprised when a note arrived, on scented paper and in an
elaborately calligraphed script:
If you would like to buy a girl some dinner after her second show, come to
the dressing rooms at twelve-thirty.
--BB
Ledbetter was, I believe, rather taken aback.
EIGHT
What on earth are you chuckling at? said a foam-clotted voice.
Kate looked up from the photocopied typescript to see her partner looking
around the doorway from the hall, a toothbrush jutting from her lips at a
jaunty angle. You better not let Nora see you doing that, she warned.
Granny Martinelli will rise up from her grave in horror if her
great-granddaughter starts running around the house with a stick in her
mouth.
Lee went back into the bathroom and came out a minute later sans brush. She
moved with deliberation around the foot of the bed, hands out to balance
herself, her cane left leaning against the dressing table.
I take it that story s entertaining? she asked as she lowered herself onto
the bed. You re giggling like a schoolgirl.
It s a hoot. Can you picture Sherlock Holmes in earnest conversation with a
drag queen?
That startled a laugh out of Lee. Oh, come on now. Is this one of those porn
stories that have Holmes and Watson in bed together?
Are there such things? The mind boggles. No, so far it s all very decorous,
although reading between the lines you begin to suspect a fair amount of
leg-pulling is going on. And actually, so far there doesn t seem to be any
evidence that the main character evenis Sherlock Holmes, although he s every
bit as pompous as the original. Far as I can see, the main reason for interest
would be if it was actually written by Conan Doyle, which I wouldn t know,
although it sounds like it s set in the early Twenties.
Early soft-core gay porn. Sure, I d kill someone for that. In fact, she
said, rolling languorously over until she was taking up a large portion of
Kate s side of the bed, I d kill for some of the later kind.
Murder is not necessary, Kate replied. She dropped the sheaf of papers to
the floor, turned off the reading light, and before long had her partner
giggling, like a schoolgirl.
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KATE never failed to step back and wonder at the morning ritual. Even on
those days when Nora was in a temper, when Lee was snappish with aches, when
Kate herself was rushed out the door, there would be a moment when she would
pause and savor the precious fact of the day. This Wednesday morning it came
while she stood in the door of the sun-filled kitchen and bit into a cold,
leathery, half-burned English muffin, Nora s latest culinary venture. Lee,
still in the thigh-length T-shirt she used as a nightie and hair awry, was
holding the glass carafe of the coffeemaker up to the window to see if what it
held was still drinkable. Nora, in her school clothes and hair brushed but
nonetheless nearly as awry as her mother s, was scowling with concentration at
the complexities of spreading jam on muffin.
Strawberry jam s harder to get even than other kinds, the child complained. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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