Free The Old Wine Shades by Martha Grimes Page B

swallow of his whiskey, commenting on how smooth it was.
    Where did that damned poodle fit in? She’d asked him how he liked the Labrador, so she was certain to ask about the poodle.
    ‘Evening, gentlemen,’ came a voice from behind Melrose.
    ‘Superintendent!’ said Major Champs and Colonel Neame in unison.
    Jury made a slight bow and greeted Melrose Plant. ‘Back in the enfolding arms of Boring’s.’
    ‘Delighted to see you, Mr. Jury, or’–Colonel Neame continued, sotto voce–’is there trouble afoot?’ From his expression, one could tell he was hopeful.
    ‘Not yet, anyway.’
    Major Champs said, ‘I hope a body doesn’t turn up every time you do, Superintendent!’
    ‘So do I.’
    They laughed at this and slapped their chair arms.
    Melrose had beckoned to one of the porters as soon as Jury appeared. Sit down, he said to Jury, making room on the leather sofa the unfortunate color of dried blood.
    Jury removed his coat and sat as the porter (slightly stooped, but not as old as Young Higgins) came up to their group. Melrose said, ‘Whiskey all round.’
    Colonel Neame reminisced: ‘That death here was quite the most exciting and unnerving time I’ve had since the war. A real shocker, that was. To think the killer just walked in, stabbed poor Pitt and walked out again and no one the wiser.’
    Said Major Champs, ‘Just goes to show how dead we all must look in Boring’s.’
    Jury laughed. ‘No, I really don’t think so; what it shows is how shockingly easy it is for someone to commit a murder in a public place. Like this.’
    The waiter reappeared and set down their drinks.
    ‘Cheers,’ said Melrose. They all raised their glasses.
    ‘So you’re not here on police business?’
    ‘No, just to have lunch.’
    Major Champs harrumphed. ‘Well, I’m surprised someone hasn’t killed the cook.’
    Melrose laughed. ‘That bad?’
    ‘Lamb was tough. Still, food’s usually decent enough. I expect even the cook can have a bad day now and then.’
    ‘But not as bad, let’s hope,’ Melrose held up the book, ‘as Miss Praed’s chef.’

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    Young Higgins informed them that as there’d been a run on the lamb during this luncheon, he hoped the cold beef tongue would suffice. Or the stuffed portobello mushroom?’
    Melrose raised an inquiring eye. ‘A run? But there’s no one else here, Higgins.’ Melrose spread his arms in testimony to empty space.
    ‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ said Jury. ‘The mushrooms are fine with me, Higgins.’
    ‘Mushroom,’ said Melrose. ‘There’s only one.’
    ‘What are they stuffed with, Higgins?’
    ‘What is it stuffed with? Good grief,’ Melrose said. ‘Wiggins would know more about portobello mushrooms than you.’
    ‘If it was stuffed with a ground physic, maybe,’ said Jury.
    ‘With what?’
    ‘A ground-lamb mixture, m’ lord,’ said Young Higgins to Melrose.
    Melrose said, ‘Don’t tell me, I’m not having them.’
    ‘It,’ said Jury.
    Melrose gritted his teeth.
    ‘I guess now we know what happened to the lamb!’ said Jury with a manufactured gleeful smile.
    Young Higgins joined in the revelry with a wrinkled smile of his own. ‘Yes, sir, and we also have a tomato-mozzarella salad.’ Jury spread his huge white napkin across his lap. ‘Sounds good.’
    ‘Indeed, sir.’ Higgins bowed. ‘And you’ll be having the cold tongue, m’ lord?’
    Melrose shivered. ‘No, I guess I’ll have the portobello mushroom. We’ll both have it.’
    ‘Them,’ said Jury.
    Melrose glared.
    ‘And we’ll have the salad also?’ said Young Higgins.
    Melrose was tempted to say they would but was Young Higgins joining them? Higgins seemed to have adopted this Irish idiom of asking a question that wasn’t a question and, in the bargain, including himself in. Instead, Melrose said to Jury, ‘We will, won’t we?’ Jury nodded. ‘We will, yes.’
    The elderly waiter shuffled away.
    ‘Young Higgins isn’t getting any younger.’ Jury sighed as if this