Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite Read Online Free Page B

innovative. Although I guess that’s not a big help, either, because they write that about all the pricey restaurants. And this one is pricey, all right.
    At any rate, Al and I were immediately impressed with the room itself—elegant, yet comfortable—and we settled into the plush chairs with a great deal of anticipation.
    The service, we saw at once, was prompt and courteous (except that on setting down the first course, the waiter felt compelled, for some reason, to instruct me about the order in which to use the forks).
    As for the actual meal, it turned out to be truly exceptional. I mean, it was one of the worst dinners I’ve ever had.
    Let me give you an idea.
    Al ordered a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and made a toast in honor of this somewhat questionable occasion. “It’s been a wonderful three months,” he said, a little catch in his voice. “And I thank the woman responsible.”
    Naturally, being ninety-nine percent marshmallow, I started to sniffle. And when I composed myself, all I was able to come up with was a totally lame and uninspired, “I want to thank the man responsible, too.”
    At any rate, I must say that the wine was very good—until the aftertaste kicked in. It hit the two of us at the same time, and we made what I imagined must be matching—and extremely unattractive—faces.
    Not particularly anxious to linger over our libations under the circumstances, we soon selected our dishes.
    We both opted for some sort of mixed seafood appetizer. When the food arrived at the table, it was so creatively presented that our expectations were in high gear again. One mouthful, however, and we were desperate enough to wash it down with that lousy wine.
    For an entree, Al had decided on another seafood concoction. As I recall, it had shrimp and scallops and maybe lobster. And improbably enough, it somehow managed to outdo the appetizer. Now, in the event you’ve gotten the impression that the kitchen here just might not have a knack with seafood, I had a veal chop. And while I concede that the meat was juicy, it was infused with this thick, cloying sauce that made me long to run it under a water faucet.
    But exactly how bad could that dinner have been?
    I know you’ll find it tough to swallow (sorry, I was too weak to resist the pun), but by the time the remains of that horrendous veal chop were carried off, my palate had been so ruthlessly assaulted that I had absolutely no desire for dessert. Al, however, proved to be made of hardier stuff. The finale to his meal was something with coconut ice cream and fruit in a tough, oily pastry shell. Yecch!
    I should clarify something, though. The evening was far from a disaster. If you could discount the food—which, of course, took a bit of doing—it actually turned out to be very pleasant. The reason being that, as usual, Al and I thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company.
    In between gripes about what was on our plates and then about what had just been on our plates, we talked about all kinds of things: Al’s upcoming Vegas-L.A. trip, the awful book I’d just finished, the terrific one Al was presently reading—and Thanksgiving, with Al inviting me to spend the holiday at his sister’s with him.
    I was touched, but I wasn’t ready for anything like that. Not yet. Thanking him warmly, I explained that I’d already made plans to have dinner at Ellen’s.
    A lie. And I could only hope it hadn’t resulted in one of those miserable, telltale blushes of mine. The fact was, Ellen and Mike—who’d been her almost-fiancé for much too long by then—were flying down to Florida for an extended weekend with her parents, my late husband Ed’s sister and brother-in-law.
    Al was disappointed that I couldn’t come, but he assured me that if anything changed, it would even be okay to let him know on Thanksgiving morning.
    Now, we were having our coffee at this juncture. And I had definitely made up my mind not to say a single word regarding my new case. Not