Martha Grimes - The Lamorna Wink

And now, as if the gods looked down for a good laugh, Sly asked, “And how is Miss Rivington? Always enjoy seeing Miss Rivington.”

For once, Trevor Sly’s trying to convince his listener that everybody in the English-Arab-speaking world loved nothing more than a drink and a meal at the Blue Parrot (“Tony Blair only just missed the turnoff; I’ll have to do something about the placement of my sign”)-for once Melrose welcomed Sly’s name-dropping. They might have dragged Vivian here once, but certainly once had been enough for her. Melrose had never been able to sort out just how Sly managed to keep the place running, for in all the times he’d been here he’d never seen more than one or two other people.

“You’ve not run out of the Kibbi Bi-Saniyyi, now?” said Melrose, turning to the count. “You must have that,” he said, clamping his hand on Giopinno’s shoulder. He and Trueblood had been doing a lot of clamping, punching, and shaking of the count.

Trevor Sly had drawn their beer-a Cairo Flame for the count-despite the man’s preference for Pellegrino. Trueblood insisted. “Good lord, you don’t expect our old drinking buddy Vivian to quaff mineral water!”

Sly had helped himself to a tot of cognac after Melrose told him to have a drink on them and was sitting on his high stool, legs wound round its legs like ivy. Now he said, “There’s been a real run on that today, Mr. Plant.” To the count, he said, “You see, it’s my specialty-of-the-house-”

If no one was ever in the house, how could the kitchen have had a run on anything?

“-but I’m sure I can eke out one order of Kibbi Bi-Saniyyi, seeing it’s you, Mr. Giopinno.” Sly had it rhyming with Geronimo.

“Eke-ing out” was about all the Kibbi Bi-Saniyyi could do.

Mr. Giopinno said he would gladly give up the order to Mr. Plant or Mr. Trueblood, Mr. Plant and Mr. Trueblood waved away his most generous offer.

“No, no,” said Trueblood. “You must have it; that dish is Vivian’s favorite and she makes it now herself, having got the recipe from Trevor here.”

Trevor looked about to interrupt, and Trueblood hurried on.

“Miss Rivington is soon to be married, Mr. Sly, and this is the lucky man!” He punched Giopinno’s shoulder.

Sly was all astonishment. “Well, I never… well, that’s good news, isn’t it, gentlemen? And when’s the happy event to be?”

“Next month,” said Trueblood. “October… tenth? Is that it?”

Giopinno seemed a bit reluctant to confirm this. “We were thinking of the fifteenth. There has been some little problem with the invitations.” His smile was a trifle weak.

Sly said, “You’ll be living in Italy, I expect? How romantic.” Back on his stool after pouring himself-at Plant’s suggestion-another slug of cognac, he said, “And where is the reception to be?”

Melrose said, “Why not here, Mr. Sly? They could come by camel.”

Before the count could clarify their intention to live in Italy, Melrose said, “Not in Italy altogether, no. Much of the time they’ll be living right here!” He pounded the bar as if “right here” really did mean “right here.”

Unfortunately for him, the count had just taken a mouthful of Sly’s Cairo Flame and choked on it. The beer was hellish all by itself; coupled with the announcement that he would always have access to it by living “here”-that was hell indeed.

“So they’ll be in Italy only part of the year,” Melrose said. This was, actually, what Vivian had told them. The truth was so relaxing, he reflected. One didn’t have constantly to be keeping track; one could always revert to it with confidence and a clear conscience. Melrose raised his glass and Trueblood followed suit. “So drink up! Mr. Sly, bring on the Kibbi Bi-Saniyyi.”

“And another Cairo Flame for Franco, here!” Melrose clapped him again on the shoulder.

To her credit, Diane Demorney was not, for once, looking out for number one. She had no designs on Franco Giopinno. Had she at first been a little smitten, that went out the window with San Pellegrino. He was certainly handsome, but not really awfully amusing. Indeed he seemed a bit dry, a bit too literal, and (Diane was certain) a bit too poor.

It was plain as the nose on his well-chiseled face that the man was a fortune hunter, a type of which Diane could hardly disapprove, having been one herself for so long and having been amply rewarded for her troubles by her three wealthy ex-husbands.

Yes, she knew the signs because she knew herself: cool reserve, an excessive desire to please, masked by a certain hauteur (for one couldn’t be seen as a pushover, could one?), but more than anything else-tenacity. And God only knew, Giopinno was tenacious. No man could put up with the ambivalence of Vivian Rivington (who definitely needed to be taken in hand ) unless he knew he would be rewarded handsomely.

It was the following morning and the two-Diane Demorney and Franco Giopinno-sat in the little café annexed to the library. Marshall Trueblood’s idea of introducing “Latte at the Library” had been a howling success and had saved the librarian’s goose. Otherwise, the place might just have been closed down for lack of custom, whereas now it was quite abuzz with the stuff.

Two tables away sat Plant and Trueblood; Diane had insisted (out of the count’s hearing, of course), “Leave, or sit by yourselves! Too many of us would look like harassment!” They sat at the corner table, pretending to read a couple of library books.

Diane had made small arrangements herself. One of these had just walked in: Theo Wrenn Browne, the owner of the local bookstore (who’d been behind trying to get rid of the library). When Diane had first settled in Long Piddleton, she’d found Theo Wrenn Browne rather amusing, with his conniving, acerbic temper and relentless attacks on other Piddletonians. But he had fast become rather a bore, for there was no acerbic wit to match the acerbic temperament.

Now, Theo stood in the doorway of the café, looking around in that self-important way of his, as if he couldn’t make out where Diane and Giopinno were sitting (although there were only six tables). Theo was waiting for her to see him. It helped his flailing ego to have her raise her hand and motion him over. She did, he went.

Theo had been told that the count was looking for a solid business investment and was especially interested in books. “A bookshop such as-oh, what is it-Waterstone’s? One of those discount stores.” The count had said this, he had said precisely this, with no further augmentation of the subject by way of his wanting to own a bookstore. They had been talking about reading. Diane avoided it and so (she thought) did he. That was because he talked about it so much. To quiet him, she brought up Henry James. She brought up The Portrait of a Lady. “You remember”-of course he didn’t-“that awful clash of cultures? How the sweet young heiress falls into the clutches of the corrupt Europeans?” Diane truly warmed to this subject. “And that absolutely dreadful husband of hers? They lived in Venice, coincidentally.”

This was the sum and substance of Diane’s knowledge of the Henry James novel. And of the entire James oeuvre. It was simply one of the bits of knowledge she gleaned from reading just a little so she’d never have to read a lot.

Oh! But Franco Giopinno had gone more than a little white when she’d brought that up! Indeed, she considered reading more of this author’s work; James just might be amusing if he could call up such a look of trepidation on Giopinno’s face.

Theo was at the counter getting himself a latte, and Diane called to him to get Count Giopinno another espresso. Looking disgruntled, Theo gave the order. Espresso (she thought) was probably the only thing the count had enjoyed in the last twelve or sixteen hours.