Free Birds of Prey by J. A. Jance Page A

the table to make an official and suitably ceremonial pronouncement.
          “I am so very sorry Madame Featherman was unable to join you tonight. She spoke to the head chef earlier today and made a special dessert request for your table’s dining pleasure this evening. I’m happy to report that the kitchen staff has been delighted to comply. And so, unless there is someone who wishes to choose from the regular dessert menu, Reynaldo will be serving raspberry soufflés all around.”
          After that, no one bothered giving the standard dessert menu a look-see. Not wanting to appear ungrateful, we all told Reynaldo that we’d be happy to sample Margaret Featherman’s specially ordered soufflés.
          When the soufflés arrived, they were wonderful. As soon as I lifted the first steaming spoonful to my mouth, my nostrils were assailed by the aroma of hot fruit rising from the steamy sauce. Instantly I was transported back to my childhood and to my mother’s small kitchen in Seattle. There, every summer, the aromas of hot fruit would fill the entire apartment as Mother dutifully canned peaches and apricots and put up raspberry and blackberry preserves.
          I’ve heard it said that remembered smells linger longer in memory than do recollections from any of the other senses. One whiff of that steaming raspberry sauce made a believer of me. Naomi must have caught the faraway look on my face.
          “Where’d you go?” she asked.
          “Back to my childhood,” I told her. “This sauce takes me back to when I was seven or eight and used to help my mother do canning.”
          “Really,” she said. “The only thing my mother knew about canning was to use an opener on a can of Del Monte peaches. But this is wonderful,” she added.
          I looked around the room, where other diners were enjoying their non-specially-ordered desserts. “How do you suppose Margaret pulled this off?” I asked. “How do you go about getting a cruise ship kitchen to agree to whip up a special command-performance dessert like this?”
          “I understand that nicer ships are happy to comply with special requests,” Naomi answered. “But I’m sure it helps if you go in waving around the promise of a very large tip. From the looks of him, I’d guess Angelo is worried about whether or not the tip will actually materialize, since Margaret herself wasn’t here to sample the kitchen’s impeccable delivery. The sad thing is, the way tipping works on cruise ships, no gratuities actually change hands until the very last day. In other words, the staff won’t know whether or not Margaret stiffed them until it’s too late for them to do anything about it.”
          “Would she?” I asked. “Stiff them, I mean.”
          Naomi sighed. “Probably. It’s happened before.”
          After dinner we once again repaired to the Twilight Lounge. This time the pseudo-comic/pianist was missing. Instead, we were treated to the talent of an African-American torch singer named Dahlia Lucas who specialized in Billie Holiday ballads and wasn’t half bad. As Marc Alley had done all during dinner, when the dancing started up again, he assumed responsibility for Virginia and Sharon, leaving me in charge of Naomi. We danced some, but mostly we listened to the music and watched.
          “Are you having fun?” I asked.
          “On the cruise, or tonight?”
          “Both.”
          Naomi nodded. “More than I thought I would,” she said.
          “Me, too.”
          “And what about your grandparents?” she asked. “Are they having fun, too?”
          “I think so,” I told her. “They seem to have gotten over last night’s spat. I’m sure everything will be fine as long as Lars doesn’t tell Beverly what he really thinks of the way she’s wearing her hair tonight.”
          “Which is?” Naomi asked.
          “He told me it