Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

“We’ve already eaten it.”

“That’d be right.” Annabelle turned to Jack, smiling. “Hello there.”

“Ms Kasprowicz,” he replied, thickly, like his mouth was suddenly full of honey. Annabelle kissed the air near his cheek. A butterfly the size of the Times Comprehensive Atlas woke up in his stomach and started flapping its wings.

“Are you well?” she asked.

“Very, thank you.”

“Good.” She reached up and adjusted her hair. It was still wet, done up in a loose chignon. Her skin was vaguely pink from a hot shower and glowed with the best moisturisers money could buy. Garnet drop earrings matched her lipstick.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, nodding towards the stove as she reattached a hair clip. “The whole day’s been one step ahead of me.”

“Don’t worry about it. I had a hamburger on the way.”

Annabelle turned to Sabine. “See what I mean?”

“Saw it before he opened his mouth.” Sabine picked up the bottle of wine and held it out. “Top up?”

Jack brought his glass over.

“Is it me or is it hot in here?” asked Sabine.

As she poured the wine, Jack noticed that Annabelle was barefoot, her toenails the same shade of red as her earrings and lipstick. They were nice toes. She wore an oyster satin crossover top and a pair of jeans. A gold necklace disappeared down her front. Every inch of her was doing what she wanted it to do. She probably never had to ask.

“I didn’t bother to check if you were vegetarian,” she said, lifting the lid on a pot on the stove.

“Vegan,” said Jack. “I only eat organic tofu that has been humanely slaughtered.”

Sabine laughed heartily. She was definitely all carnivore.

Annabelle stirred the pot and replaced the lid. She began to set a sleek-looking, brushed metal, glass-top table.

“I thought we could eat in here. The dining room’s too big and cold.” She pointed to a chair. “Take a seat.”

Jack took his jacket off and hung it on the chair. He sat down and tried to look cool. As Annabelle went back and forth, he noticed small roses embroidered on the back pockets of her jeans.

Sabine sipped her wine. “Jack was just saying that he thinks your father’s interesting.”

“That’s one way of describing him.”

“I’ve always liked prick ,” said Sabine. “And bastard . Oh, and I love son of a bitch .”

“Let’s not get carried away in front of company now.”

“Then I would have said motherfucker .”

“You can take the girl out of the suburbs …” Annabelle shook her head.

Sabine put a hand to her breast. “I haven’t offended you, have I, Jack?”

He grinned. Sabine had the sadist about her, no doubt. Jack bet she took her time with everything. Especially getting even. “Of course not.”

Annabelle laid cutlery. “Nobody forced you to marry him,” she said to Sabine, who was now looking at her reflection in the oven door, fixing her hair and readjusting her clothing. “I still don’t know why you did.”

Sabine swung around. “Love, of course!”

“Oh, of course. What else?”

“You’re such a bitch.” Sabine picked up a handbag from the floor and blew out a weary breath. “All right then, honey. I’m off. Leave you to your romance .”

“Bye, baby.” Annabelle held Sabine’s hands and kissed her on the lips. “See you on Saturday.”

“Ten o’clock, Mario’s, don’t make me wait.”

Jack stood up. Sabine minced over and put her hand on his arm. She kissed him on both cheeks. “Lovely to meet you, Jack. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

She walked out of the kitchen. “Bye now,” she called back. “Enjoy breakfast!” The front door banged shut.

Annabelle began to dish out the risotto. “It’s bone marrow and sage.” She smiled as she served him.

Jack lost a little feeling in his knees, like somebody was blowing bubbles down there with a straw. “So that’s your ex-stepmother?”

Annabelle returned the pot of risotto to the stove. “I’d hardly call her that. I didn’t even know her when she was married to my father. I was away at boarding school that year. By the time I got back, it was over.” She began to dress a salad in a large glass bowl with frosted bunches of grapes engraved over it.

“You didn’t meet her?”

“Oh, yes, a few times, but I didn’t take any notice. She was one of many women my father paraded after my mother died. I got to know her later. After my father nearly killed her in a car accident.”

Jack remembered the scar on Sabine’s chin. “Nice they’re still friends,” he said.

Annabelle sucked oil from her little finger. “Sabine’s main aim in life is to piss my father off as much as is humanly possible.”

“He doesn’t mind you being friends?”

“No, he minds. That’s why Sabine and I get on so well. We have a dislike of my father in common.”

She brought the salad over to the table and sat down. She picked up her glass of wine. “Right then. Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

“I’m starving.”

Jack sipped his wine and then tried the risotto. There was a wholesomeness to the food, a warmth to the atmosphere in the kitchen. He had not expected it.

He stole glimpses of Annabelle as they ate. He could smell the warm soap freshness of her shower. “That’s the second relative of yours I’ve met today,” he said.

“Really? Who was the first?”

“Celia Mitten.”

The name floated between them for a moment, like the steam from the risotto. Annabelle looked down into her plate and teased the rice with her fork. “What did Celia Mitten want?” She tried to sound casual, but it did not come out that way.

“She wanted me to stop selling the Edward Kass books to your father.”

“What?”

Jack picked up his glass. He regretted that he had brought it up. The wholesome atmosphere went up the extractor fan and blew out into the night. “She thinks your father’s burning Edward Kass’s books.”

Annabelle put her fork down and wiped her mouth with a napkin. Jack had been expecting a more shocked expression. But then, what did he know? He supposed you could burn whatever the hell you wanted to burn when you were rich.

“Do you believe her?” Annabelle’s voice was low, cautious.

“Should I?”

She paused. When she spoke again, her voice was clear and sharp and hot. “Celia Mitten is a vindictive, hostile, evil bitch. I wouldn’t believe what she said if it passed a lie-detector test.” She sounded pretty adamant.

“Why would she spin something like that then?”

Annabelle stood up. The cutlery on the table rattled. “Have you got a cigarette?” she asked, impatiently. “The risotto needs to cool down, it’s too hot.”

“Sure.” Jack reached into his jacket hanging on the chair and took out his pack and a lighter.

Annabelle opened the glass doors onto the patio. Jack lit their cigarettes and they stood there and smoked. The air was cold as stainless steel.

Jack drew on his cigarette. He looked up into the night: the earlier clouds had cleared. It was a beautiful winter sky, fresh as a tarmac after rain.

“So what did she say exactly?”

“She said that Kasprowicz had sent her father a box full of ashes. His burnt books. The note implied there would be more to come. Maybe all of them.”

“She’s lying. You don’t know her. It’s all about money.”

“What money?”

“The fucking money they didn’t get! The inheritance!” A frown dug into her forehead. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. When she opened them again, they were lustreless, resigned. “It all went to my father. Celia’s never let it go. Never will.” She dropped her cigarette and stepped on it.