Wilkie Collins’ The Moonstone is considered by some experts in literature to be the first detective novel in the English Language. I thought of it now, because of one of the points of view in the story (it was told it from several, all in the first person) was that of the steward, Betteredge. Besides being the very definition of unflappable, he stuck to his precious routines as if the very existence of himself or his household depended on them. Perhaps they did. Death before dishonor, but neither before breakfast. While I’ve never been quite that extreme, I took his example now and decided to tackle nothing unusual until after lunch.
Since I didn’t have to make muffins on Sundays--we served bagels and lox with all the trimmings--in the winter I often made stew on Saturday night and ate it all the next week. Or sent some home with James when I was tired of the leftovers. He was always happy for a home-cooked meal. What was it about being in your twenties and living on junk food? Even Marie, who never hurt for money in her life, ate her share of cheap take-out when we were that age.
This week, I had a curried lamb stew that tasted better when it was reheated than it did a few days ago when it was fresh. Lamb, onion, carrots, peppers, curry, apple, cinnamon. Even cold it was a treat for a nose. A nose that was getting a little itchy. Was I was over the flu, after all? I put some stew in a small pot and let the smell permeate the kitchen. I could have thrown a bowl in the microwave, but my microwave had the annoying habit of warming the bowl more than it did its contents, making it difficult to carry to the table. I should replace it, I thought, while I rummaged in the freezer for some pita bread. That went in the toaster until it was hot enough to melt butter, which I’d spread on it before I ate. If I were having the stew for dinner and not worrying about people worrying about my sanity, I’d have enjoyed it with a good pale ale. Instead, I stuck with a bottle of Poland Spring water with a twist of lime.
Thus fed and watered, I fetched my laptop from the bedroom and settled on my living room sofa, again happy for a wireless network--a nice byproduct of dating a computer geek. Time for a little existential drudgery. I didn’t mind some of the tasks that went with owning most of the business, but I couldn’t deny the tedium of data entry. I double-checked the inventory received over the last couple of days against the packing slips, checked on the status of some special orders, and finished by reading the store’s email.
Turning to my personal email, I had a note from Michael, who was still in Baton Rouge. As predicted, there had been dinner with the prospective client, so he’d stayed up there overnight. I replied suggesting we meet for dinner if Jerry didn’t keep him in the office too late when he got back.
Three-thirty. I had been up over eight hours and everything I saw so far today had been real. Nor had anything or anyone disappeared when I tried to get a closer look. So far so good. I opened an email from Nate Dodson. No McCoys reported missing on Sunday night, but he’d also check tomorrow, since cases weren’t usually opened until someone had been missing for 48 hours. I’d make myself wait another day.
There was no word from Jerry, and I decided I didn’t want to talk to him just now. Marie might have been a little concerned, but a conversation with her would not have Feliz so worried. Just to confirm my suspicions, I called her on my cell phone.
“Hey girl, how you feeling?” she asked when she picked up.
“Like I’ve been benched even though I’m perfectly able to play ball.” That had happened in eighth grade when I had an ear infection. I had felt perfectly fine, but Mom had given the doctor’s note directly to the coach despite my protests. I spent a frustrated hour and a half doing nothing but sitting on the sidelines in full St. Thomas the Apostle team uniform and watched our butts get handed to us.
“When I called the store at lunch and Feliz said you were out, I knew just where you went. Did the bartender remember the guy?”
“Not in the slightest,” I said. “I don’t believe him. There weren’t a lot of people sitting at the bar last night.” Most of the patronage had been at small tables closer to the piano. “Feliz thinks I’m still sick with the flu.”
“Maybe you are. If he’d been there, I would have seen him.”
“You were flirting, Marie,” I said without expression.
“Oh.”
It was a small victory, but I treasured it for a moment before I and convinced Marie that I was going to take it easy. I even made the promised doctor’s appointment, which would be on Friday. Marie insisted on coming with me. I almost said no, but thought better of it. Her company would be much better than a mothering Feliz or a hovering Jerry. And I wouldn’t have to worry about cab fare. Weary of defending myself, I decided to take a nap and turned the ringer off on both phones.