Free The Stargazey by Martha Grimes Page B

have money—”
    (Agatha not being among the “us.”)
    â€œâ€”to speak of a sum such as that as not much .”
    Melrose ignored her and drew a scalloped line all around to represent the pie. “You exaggerate my personal worth. I’ve told Martha to employ a number of cuts in our menus. We’re having fish pie for Sunday dinner.”
    She was now drawing the local paper out of her voluminous bag, having done with the bigger issues of life as reported in the national papers. Melrose noted that she was awash in papers this morning;usually she depended upon her own stop-press reporting. As if it had fleas, she shook out the Sidbury Star. “There’s this horoscope rant that Diane Demorney’s on.”
    Melrose rather liked the notion of a horoscope rant. Of course, Diane Demorney ranting about anything (even including the proportion of vermouth to vodka in her martini) was difficult to envision. She was much too languid. “Well, her horoscopes have livened the paper up considerably.” If one could breathe life into mummy remains. “To call it ranting is overdoing it, I think.”
    Agatha slapped the paper a few times. “Listen to this; it’s Pisces:
    â€œ As somebody once said, ‘To every man there is a season,’ and you’ve had yours. Get up, get out, get it together. Instead of constantly effing and blinding about the way the world treats you, consider the way you treat the world, to paraphrase John F. Kennedy. As the Moon transits Neptune there could be trouble, so don’t go making it for yourself. Stop whining! ”
    â€œYou don’t think that’s good advice? I’d take it to heart, if that were my sign.” Melrose said this absently, as he sat back and compared his sketching of fishes with the fishes on Jury’s postcard. Pretty good. Perhaps he did have a calling after all. Not art, but making fish pies. He held his drawing out for her to feast her eyes on, as he was pretty certain she wouldn’t want to feast her mouth on it.
    Agatha stopped in the process of her own rant to put a dollop of thick cream on her scone. “What were you saying about Sunday dinner? What fish pie? It sounds absolutely dreadful.”
    â€œStarry-gazey pie. I saw Martha just this morning, cleaning the little fish. It’s one of her specialties.” He decided to poke another fish head through the crust. He wished he had some coloring pencils.
    In a tone of abject disgust, she said, “Melrose—”
    (Don’t be ridiculous.)
    â€œâ€”don’t be ridiculous.”
    (Right again.)

8
    I n Shoe Lane, to which Melrose had repaired after Agatha polished off the plates, the scented air told him he was nearing the cottage of Miss Alice Broadstairs. As usual, she was gardening, while her oafish gray cat, Desperado, loafed on top of one of the stone pillars rather ostentatiously set on both sides of her short paved walk. Melrose had several times tried to excite this cat, but he couldn’t. Neither could Mindy nor Miss Crisp’s Jack Russell (of chamber-pot fame). Miss Broadstairs, however, was eminently excitable, even when no one was trying. Excitement seemed to be bred into her marrow, for she was a fluttery, breathy woman, thin and dry as the leaves she trod underfoot. She and Lavinia Vine were always taking home the blue and gold ribbons from the annual Sidbury flower show.
    â€œOne can’t start too early, Mr. Plant!” she called, referring to this spring extravaganza, and came to talk to him over her neatly trimmed hedge.
    As far as Melrose was concerned, one needn’t start at all. But he smiled his encouragement in a most friendly manner. Her voice was low and her look secretive: lips crimped together, hydrangea-colored eyes darting left and right, as if probing the empty lane for flower thieves. “I’m forcing sweet peas.”
    Melrose blinked at this unexciting news, uncertain how to