Free Death by the Book by Lenny Bartulin Page B

waited, watching him.
    Annabelle broke the silence ‘Why are you after Edward’s books?’
    Kasprowicz frowned like a High Court judge. ‘And why would that be any of your concern?’
    ‘Not so much my concern,’ said Annabelle. ‘Rather Celia Mitten’s.’
    ‘What are you talking about?’
    Annabelle turned to look at her father. Kasprowicz pushed his chin out.
    ‘Are you burning Edward’s books?’ she said, a little stronger than matter-of-factly. ‘Is that why you’ve got Jack searching for them? So that you can burn them, put the ashes in a box and send them to a sick old man?’
    Kasprowicz shook his head, disappointed and annoyed, as though Annabelle had just told him she was pregnant by the gardener. ‘You’ve been drinking,’ he said. The man wasa Fourth-Dan Black Belt in the delivery of contempt. ‘Who told you this nonsense?’
    Annabelle stood up, determined. She knew she had already gone too far. Even the pot plants knew it. ‘Are you burning Edward’s books?’ she repeated.
    ‘You might want to lose the tone.’
    ‘Then why else would you want them?’
    Hammond Kasprowicz looked at Jack and then back at his daughter. His face was as hard as the bust of a Roman emperor. He did not care that the risotto was getting cold. ‘It’s not your business,’ he said. That was it. Question time was over. He picked up his jacket, turned and walked out of the kitchen. His footsteps were loud but unhurried down the hall.
    For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Annabelle went over to the stove and switched the extraction fan off. Jack drank some wine. His stomach mumbled something nasty about being empty.
    ‘Not much of a dinner,’ said Annabelle.
    ‘It’s still here.’
    ‘I’m sorry. And it was meant to be an apology.’
    Jack stood up, slowly. Obviously time to go. ‘Nothing to be sorry about.’
    ‘I’ll call you. Maybe we could try this again. In a restaurant.’
    ‘Any time.’
    Jack slipped on his coat, adjusted the sleeves and collar of his shirt. Annabelle crossed her arms over her chest. There was going to be no goodnight kiss.
    ‘Do you think he burnt them?’
    ‘You know your father better than I do.’
    ‘Nobody knows my father.’
    She stared at the terracotta tiles. Jack walked towards the hallway door. She did not look up when he said goodbye. He stepped quietly out of the kitchen and made his way to the front door.
    Outside, he lit a cigarette, walked to the gate and glanced back at the house. It looked cold and empty, even though he knew there were people inside.
     
    Jack changed his mind about going home. He was hungry. He stopped in Paddington, ordered a pizza and bought a bottle of wine. Then he hailed another taxi and directed it into the city.
    It was still quite early. Lois was no doubt curled up somewhere in a neighbour’s apartment, not thinking about him at all. Sometimes home could feel a little empty, especially on wet Monday nights. Jack wanted the dusty silence of Susko Books, and some Charles Mingus on the stereo for company. Tonight, maybe
At the Bohemia, 1955
. And then ease into that long bottle of red. Pick out some books, open the pages at random and see what he gets. The outside world where it should be — outside.
    He had kissed her. Thirty sweet seconds. Hardly enough to count for a memory.
    ‘Just here’s fine, thanks.’ Jack held the pizza box off his lap and paid the cab driver. The smell had filled the taxi, greasing the stale air inside.
    A street-sweeper swished loudly around the corner and Jack stepped back from the kerb as it drove past. The sky was still clear, the stars in crisp focus. It was cold, butno rain tonight. Just ahead, Queen Victoria sat in her usual spot, spilling abundantly out of her chair, the weight of the Empire in her sagging bronze jowls.
    York Street. Somebody sat on the top steps to Susko Books, talking on a mobile phone, his back to the street. Jack crossed over. He watched the young guy stand up and pocket his