Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

‘‘You’d rather we did a drama? Don’t you feel that it’s important for the general public to realize that Shakespeare can be light? Humorous? People are so deadly serious.’’

‘‘Well…’’ Falkland said, drawing the word out, ‘‘some issues in life are serious, of course. Aren’t they?’’

‘‘Of course, but-’’

‘‘But enough of this. Let me just mix us all a drink.’’

Falkland busied himself with the bottled water, lime, and lemon wedges that the silent butler, Sloan, had brought in, and decanters of some splendid bourbon and Scotch, which the Falklands were too well-bred to keep in labeled bottles, but which to Basil’s taste in his first drink seemed like Knob Creek or possibly the top-of-the-line Maker’s Mark. Not the kind you buy in stores, even specialty shops. You had to order it from the company.

‘‘Here, darling,’’ Falkland said, turning to Pamela. ‘‘Basil’s and yours.’’

Pamela carried Basil’s drink to him, reaching out to put it in his hand. Her fingertips grazed his as he reached for the glass, and her thumb stroked the back of his hand. Basil’s breath caught. How beautiful she was. He could scarcely believe his luck. Their affair had started the first day of rehearsals. Seeing her husband, and this mansion, knowing that she had been an actress of some considerable reputation, he could imagine that she might be bored in this big house, with a husband who looked chilly and austere.

Pamela left her hand next to his just half a second too long. Basil resisted pulling back. Surely that would only make it more obvious. But he thought Falkland had seen. Or maybe not. He’d been pouring his own drink, rather a stiff one. But he’d been casually looking toward them, too, over the lip of the glass. Did he notice? After all, what would he see? A woman hands a man a drink. Just ordinary hospitality. Just what was expected.

Abruptly, Falkland said, ‘‘Pamela?’’

‘‘Yes, dear?’’

‘‘I just realized I’ve not chosen a dessert wine. I have a lovely Médoc for dinner. We’re having a crown roast of lamb, and the dinner wine should be just right. But we need something to go with the sabayon and raspberries, don’t we?’’

‘‘Yes, I imagine so, dear.’’

Basil noted that Sloan was waiting near the door that led from this great room to some unspecified back region. Briefly, he wondered why Sloan hadn’t poured and passed the drinks.

‘‘Well, go to the wine cellar with Sloan and find something special, would you?’’

‘‘Of course, darling.’’ An expression of mild puzzlement passed over Pamela’s face, not rising quite to the level of a wrinkle across her lovely brow.

‘‘We want something beyond the ordinary for Basil, don’t you think? Something that sings. A finale! A last act! After all, he is an artiste.’’

‘‘Uh, yes, darling. It’s just that you usually make the decisions about wine.’’

‘‘Yes, but Basil is your friend.’’

‘‘Of course.’’

‘‘Help Mrs. Falkland, please, Sloan,’’ Falkland said.

Pamela went out the door, and Sloan, after nodding to Falkland, followed her.

It was just a bit awkward with Pamela gone, Basil found. He rose, strolled about, stopping at the French windows facing the back, admiring the lake view, the private dock, and the yacht anchored there, sleek, long, and bright white even in the dying daylight. He tried a few questions about Falkland’s line of work, but when the man answered at length, he realized that he didn’t know what e-arbitrage was and couldn’t intelligently carry on that line of conversation. Pamela was taking entirely too long with the dessert wine. She should have stayed here to protect him. After all, this damned dinner had been her idea. He wondered whether maybe she was a risk taker and liked to skate close to discovery. He’d had hints of that when he saw her drive out of the playhouse parking lot at highway speed. Perhaps tonight she was teasing her husband. Well, Basil would have to be doubly careful, if so.

Then Falkland quoted, ‘‘ ‘And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst; but, Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom, Kate of Kate-Hall, my super-dainty Kate.’ ’’

‘‘You know the play.’’

‘‘Oh, yes. I was quite a theater scholar once upon a time. In fact, I met Pamela through the theater.’’

‘‘Oh?’’

‘‘I was a backer for one of her shows. She, of course, was the star.’’

‘‘But she doesn’t act outside of rep anymore.’’

‘‘Oh, I need her all to myself. ‘Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee-’ ’’

‘‘Shakespeare has Kate present some good arguments against that point of view.’’

‘‘Ah, but ‘such duty as the subject owes the prince, even such a woman oweth to her husband.’ ’’

Basil did not respond. How had he gotten drawn into this discussion anyhow? And where the hell was Pamela?

Sloan appeared in the arch between the great hall and the dining room. Basil was startled for a second to see him, and he realized how very soundproof the back regions were. One heard no sounds of cooking, or plates rattling, or glasses clinking.

‘‘Dinner is ready, sir, whenever you are.’’

Basil had not studied Sloan before, since Basil had been fully occupied with other problems. But now he realized that the man was extremely sleek. His suit was as well made as Falkland’s, or nearly so. His cheeks were pinkly smooth-shaven. His hair, thin on top and combed down flat with no attempt to cover the bald center, was rich brown and shiny. Therefore it was a bit of a surprise that, apparently unknown to Sloan, a small tuft, no bigger than the wing of a wren, was disarranged in back. Perhaps he had brushed against something while cooking, if indeed he was the person in the ménage who cooked.

Falkland murmured, ‘‘What say you to a piece of roast and mustard?’’

Basil winced. He was getting bloody damned tired of Shakespeare. ‘‘We should wait for Pamela, shouldn’t we?’’

‘‘We’ll just start on the appetizer, I think,’’ Falkland said.

Basil sat across from Falkland, himself to the right and Falkland to the left of the head of the long table, a wide pond of shiny walnut between them. Candles were the only lights. The head of the table apparently had been left for Pamela, which made some sense, since it put her between them and she was the only woman present. Or absent, as was the case currently. Basil regarded the silver at his place setting with dismay. Why five forks? There were also three spoons, but he was sure he could figure those out. One was likely for coffee. Or dessert? There was a rounded soupspoon. A fellow director had once told him on a shoot, where they were doing a two-shot of the happy couple at dinner, that a small round soupspoon was for thick soup and a large oval soupspoon was for clear soup. But five forks, only one perhaps identifiable as a salad fork? Now that he thought about it, the setup was probably designed to intimidate him. Well, he wasn’t going to let that happen.

He said, ‘‘Where is Pamela? We’ll be done with the first course before she arrives if we’re not careful.’’

‘‘She might be-quite a while. Pamela has always had a difficult time making up her mind.’’

Basil had no idea what to say to that. He sat unhappily in his chair, wondering why Falkland kept the dining room so dark. It would make a wonderful set for-oh, hell. The kind of atmosphere Falkland had prepared would only be good for a show with a supernatural element. Or a murder. Gaslight, Macbeth, Deathtrap.

But, of course, it was just the natural dining behavior of the very rich. For the thousandth upon thousandth time Basil reflected that he should have been born rich. Candles at dinner were probably a nightly ritual at the Falklands’. He’d used them in his production of An Inspector Calls. And of course Macbeth . Thank God he hadn’t uttered the name of the Scottish play aloud. Very bad luck.