Free The Formula for Murder by Carol McCleary

my cab dropped me off where the entrance to the hotel is completely lit with electric lights and the doorman, who is waiting to help me down and escort me in, is dressed as modestly as the admiral of the Royal Fleet, I decided Oscar may be more melodramatic than in danger.
    My poor stomach grumbles and I mutter, “Where are you, Oscar?” as I await his presence. His response instructed me to meet him at ten-thirty, a fashionable time for dinner after plays are over. I check my father’s pocket watch. He’s five minutes late. And there is nothing fashionable about my healthy appetite.
    I’ve never gotten used to chic late-night eating, not even after several years in New York, and I’m hungry enough to nibble on the wood table. In my hometown of Cochran Mills, Pennsylvania, population exactly 534, I grew up having dinner at six sharp, not hours after the sun has gone down.
    I almost feel like getting up and going back to roam again in the encased garden atrium. It’s really lovely and so unexpected in downtown gray foggy London. They took the inner courtyard and covered it with an iron and glass roof so it can be enjoyed year-round. Scattered among the flowers and trees are wrought-iron tables and cushioned chairs and benches so one can sit and gaze at the stars as they sip wine. I imagine it must be beautiful to sit and watch snowflakes fall. It would be like being in one of those glass balls my mother has that you shake and watch the snow fall on the animals in a forest.
    I’ve traveled the world and seen many gorgeous hotels, but never have I experienced a place as elegant as the Langham. Throughout the public areas they have intricately laid mosaic flooring decorated in white, gold, and scarlet. Selectively hanging on walls covered with hand-printed wallpaper are Moorish murals and silk hangings—each having a story of their own to tell. White marble pillars that give one the feeling of pure wealth are standing guard all about.
    Coming through the grand entrance, hanging on the hallway wall leading into the dining area is a Persian tapestry carpet that must have cost a king’s ransom.
    The dining room is enormous and simply dazzling. Their wallpaper is a light creamy beige adorned with little golden angels, each holding a black bow and arrow—some shooting arrows and some sitting on fluffy white clouds. And something I’ve rarely seen, electric chandeliers—thousands of crystals of all shapes and sizes lit with lightbulbs. There are over a dozen of these brilliant lighting fixtures hanging from the fourteen-foot ceiling which is a highly polished pinkish Italian Veneziano plaster—or as the Italians say, “the Women’s Stucco” because it burnishes to an even gloss with very little effort. White marble pillars are scattered among the tables. One wall is floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooks the encased garden. All this creates a sumptuous atmosphere, perfect for eating … which I’m dying to do.
    When the maître d’ took me to my table, I paused for a moment and stared at a large stone fireplace with roaring flames on the opposite wall from the glass wall—the wood is not being burned. “A gas fireplace,” he tells me, “with ceramic logs.”
    Amazing. What will they think of next?
    Our table sits right in the center of the room. If Oscar wants anonymity, this is definitely not going to please him; however, if I take into consideration a pillar which is right by our table, Oscar might have a little privacy from the curious if he is truly planning to appear in some sort of disguise.
    Each table is set with floral china sitting on top of silver charger plates, sterling silverware, crystal water and wine glasses, a small vase of flowers, and a candle in a decorative etched glass candleholder in the center of the table; some settings, like mine, have a crystal wine holder that looks like a duck.
    After seeing what other diners are wearing, I’m not happy being in the center of the room and find myself