Janet Evanovich - Foul Play

He didn’t know what to say. He could hear pain in her voice and wanted to soothe it away, but he’d felt the tremors, too. Probably that was why they were going out to dinner. A big loud show of happiness and solidarity. It’s like the big bad wolf trying to blow my house down, Jake thought. There was something out there, something foolish and threatening, and Jake hoped his good solid house of brick could withstand all that huffing and puffing. He drove past George Mason University and into the town of Fairfax. He turned onto a back street and parked in a small lot, pleased to see there wasn’t room for the van.

They walked hand in hand through a quaint alley to the sidewalk and the front of the restaurant. Amy looked down the street at the large white wooden town hall that had been converted into a library. The Wiley house was just across from them, its front yard neatly divided into rectangles by staked string, evidence of historical excavation. Fairfax was an old town, founded by Lord Fairfax, and it had preserved much of its colonial character. Amy liked that. It gave her a feeling of stability and permanence.

Jake guided her into a restaurant that might easily be overlooked by an unknowing passerby. It was a brick row house with ornate white window moldings and an elaborate white portico. The only advertisement was an engraved gold plaque on the door, which stated that this was “Daley’s Tavern.”

The interior was divided into several small dining rooms, elegantly decorated in eighteenth-century Chippendale and Queen Anne. Amy barely had time to admire the fresh cut flowers in the cool lobby before they were shown to an intimate corner table with a view of the tiny backyard garden. “It’s lovely,” Amy said.

Jake relaxed into his cherrywood side chair. He agreed. It was lovely, and it was far removed from dancing roosters and canceled castrations. He hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed a break from the great chicken caper until they’d entered Daley’s.

There was sanity in Daley’s. People were sitting in ten miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic on I-95, and they were standing twenty deep at the checkout of the Gourmet Giant supermarket. He, on the other hand, had the good sense to come to Daley’s. He felt his eyes glaze over in smug complacency.

Daley’s was an island in the sea of suburban frenzy. It was calm. It was cool. It was conducive to pleasant conversation.

He looked at the menu and ordered grilled fish. Amy ordered the same. The formally dressed waiter brought them an assortment of warm muffins and breads and a small tub of whipped butter.

Amy buttered a pumpkin muffin and chewed it thoughtfully. “You know what we should do? We should trail Veronica Bottles just like that van is trailing me. Stick to her like glue. Maybe she’s got Red stuck away somewhere. Maybe…”

Jake made a strangled sound in his throat.

Amy’s eyes widened. “What’s the matter? You sound like Mrs. Jennings’s cat when she coughed up that hairball.”

“You weren’t supposed to be thinking about Red,” he said. “This is supposed to be a romantic interlude. We’re supposed to think about love and sex.”

“Oh.” She nibbled on her muffin. If she thought about sex, she might jump across the table after him. He was incredibly handsome in a navy blazer and blue shirt with red striped tie. His dark lashes shadowed his eyes in the subdued lighting of the room, and there was the hint of a rakish smile at the corners of his mouth, as if he knew a wicked secret. It was a smile that sent a rush of heat tingling through her. She returned the muffin to her bread dish and rearranged her napkin, waiting for the desire to subside. “Well, what about love?”

“Is that what you were just thinking about? Love?”

Amy busily buttered a second pumpkin muffin. “Yup. I was thinking about love. I was thinking that it’s… um, lovely.”

“I was thinking about sex,” Jake said, his voice low but casual.

No kidding. Amy grimaced when she realized she’d buttered her thumb.

The waiter placed a shallow bowl of cold zucchini soup before each of them and smiled pleasantly. “Everything all right?”

“Perfect,” Jake said, his eyes never leaving Amy’s.

When the waiter had retreated Amy shook her bread knife at Jake. “You’re seducing me in a public restaurant. Shame on you.”

“Is it fun?”

“It’s outrageous and excruciating.”

He took her hand, rubbing his thumb across the tender flesh of her palm. “Do we need a big wedding? Can we get married tomorrow?”

Amy averted her eyes and tasted her soup. Marry him now, instinct told her. Before it’s too late. That’s insane, she retorted. Nothing’s going to happen.

“Amy?”

She gave herself a mental shake. “A big wedding isn’t necessary, but I’m sure my parents would want to attend.” Her face brightened. “We could have the wedding in my house. Just a few family members and close friends.” It would be wonderful, Amy thought. She would fill the house with spring flowers and wear a tea-length dress. Something lacy and Victorian and incredibly romantic. And afterward they could go outdoors for champagne and petit-fours. Thousands of elaborately decorated petit-fours.

Amy was distracted by voices being raised in the next room. The voices grew louder, the twenty-minute men appeared in the doorway, and Amy felt as if her heart had just been freeze-dried. She stared at the men in grim fascination as they approached her table with the minicam running.

“This is Amy Klasse,” Ponytail’s assistant narrated, “better known as Lulu the Clown…”

“Ignore them,” Jake said. “Eat your soup.”

The newsman continued: “… and Dr. Jacob Elliott, owner of the veterinary clinic where Rhode Island Red was mysteriously taken from his small cage.”

Jake kept his eyes on his soup, but Amy could see a flush rising from his shirt collar, darkening under his tan. “Ignore them,” she mumbled. “Eat your soup.”

“Dr. Elliott, this is a very expensive, very romantic restaurant. Am I right in assuming Miss Klasse is more than an ordinary employee?”

Jake coolly stared into the camera lens. “Absolutely. There’s nothing ordinary about Miss Klasse.”

The man persisted. “We’ve been told from reliable sources that Miss Klasse is under suspicion for the abduction of the rooster. That, in fact, the police searched her garbage for evidence. Is that correct?”

Jake sighed, took his napkin from his lap, and laid it beside his plate. “You aren’t going to give up, are you?”

Ponytail grinned malevolently. “No.”

“Excuse me,” Jake said, suddenly standing, taking the smaller cameraman by surprise. In one quick movement Jake lifted the minicam from Ponytail’s shoulder, removed the microphone, and deposited it in a nearby glass of Burgundy; then he took a swipe at the butter tub, spreading a thick layer of grease on the camera lens. He carefully handed the minicam back to its owner and returned to his seat.

“What do you think of the soup?” he asked Amy.

Ponytail muttered an oath and snatched his microphone from the glass of wine. His eyes were small and glittery. His breath whistled from between bared teeth.

Rodent, Amy thought with a shiver, the man’s mousy, dirty-blond hair fueling the comparison. “He looks rabid,” she whispered to Jake.

Ponytail reached across the table, grabbed Jake’s tie, and plunged it into his zucchini soup. Jake looked at the tie in controlled resignation.

“I’m going to stop wearing ties,” he said, blotting at it with his napkin. “This is getting boring.”

“I’m going to ruin you and your little friend here,” the enraged cameraman ground out. “I’m gonna nail your hide to the wall.”