Whiplash
Page 27
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"Did he drink the entire bottle?"
"Oh, yes, he did," Claude said to Sherlock, admiring the lock of red hair curling around her ear. "It costs nearly two hundred dollars a bottle here."
Bowie said, "Was he tipsy when he left?"
"I wouldn't say tipsy, no. He ordered another bottle, then paused and appeared to think about it. He changed his mind, waved me away. I didn't notice him after that."
"Okay," Savich said when the dapper Claude was out of earshot, "Dr. Franks did indeed say he'd had red wine with his venison. An entire bottle-did that make him slow, less careful?"
"Well, he certainly realized another bottle might impair him," Sherlock said. "Speaking of wine, does anyone want a nice dry chardonnay for dinner?"
Bowie shook his head, smiling. "None for me, I don't drink."
Sherlock's left eyebrow hoisted itself. "Health reasons?"
"No, not really," Bowie said, and nothing more.
They enjoyed a lovely sauced scampi over rice, crème brûlée for dessert, and rich dark French espresso.
It was nearly midnight when Bowie dropped them back at the Norman Bates Inn. Fifteen minutes later, they were tucked into a soft bed with Janet Leigh's silent earsplitting screams on the wall behind them. Sherlock said against his shoulder, "The espresso was a mistake," and sighed.
"Maybe not," Savich said, and turned to her. After a couple of minutes, she whispered against his mouth, "Well, another dessert is always nice."
15
Tuesday morning
Erin let a well-dressed, heavy-eyed Bowie Richards into her apartment the next morning at seven thirty.
"You don't look good, Agent Richards. You on an all-night bender with those wild agents from Washington?"
"All I can hope is they had as miserable a sleepless night as I did. We all drank espresso, and the stuff was so strong it could have blasted a rocket into space. That and thinking about this gnarly murder kept me up until nearly three a.m."
Erin cocked her head to one side, tried to look uninterested, but polite. "And what did you decide after all that thinking?"
He eyed her, realized he liked the oversized white shirt over the black leggings, the ballet flats on her feet. Her hair was pulled back in a French braid, big dangly hoops in her ears. She looked all dancer this morning, not a whiff of P.I. "About what? Oh, the murder. It's interesting, we found a waiter at Chez Pierre last night who'd heard the murdered man on a cell phone saying he'd made up his mind and to leave him alone-" Bowie stopped, frowned, shook his head. "Forget I said that, I shouldn't have. Shows you my brain is still singing the espresso blues. Where's Georgie? We've got to leave for school pretty soon."
Yeah, sure, I'll forget it. It's already emblazoned on my brain. Erin said, "I heard the murdered guy's name on the news this morning. Helmut Blauvelt."
"Yeah, I forgot we let out that information."
"It's lucky the waiter at Chez Pierre understood German, isn't it?"
"Oh, he didn't. Blauvelt spoke in English, only a slight accent, Estafan told us, until the end, then Blauvelt switched to German-what's wrong with me? Keep that confidential, okay?"
Erin said easily, "Not a problem. Georgie! Your dad's here."
"I'm eating oatmeal," Georgie called out from the kitchen. "You want some, Daddy?"
Bowie rubbed his eyes. "Oatmeal? She never eats oatmeal. How'd you manage that?"
"I've got a special recipe passed down from my great-grandfather. Georgie took one bite and blissed out. She doesn't want to let the oatmeal out of her sight. Have you had breakfast yet, Agent Richards? Maybe Great-granddad's oatmeal will glue things back together again in your brain."
"Call me Bowie, please."
"All right. Call me Erin."
"Erin." He took a quick look at his watch. "I really don't have time, I've got so much stuff to do and-your great-grandfather's recipe, you say?"
"Yep. He was Polish, but he always claimed he'd learned how to make it when he lived in Inverness for three years. Come on, Bowie, come into my kitchen. It'll just take a minute. Believe me, Georgie isn't going to budge from the kitchen table until she cleans out her bowl, and it's a big bowl."
Erin eyed him as he took a tiny bite, nodded, then went to work on the oatmeal with brown sugar sprinkled on top, nodding some more as his daughter spoke nonstop to him, at him, really-about how she took a running start and landed right in the middle of the red beanbag in the living room, and then Erin tried it but she was too big and fell off the side, before switching to Erin's bedtime story about a ballet dancer who hated wearing a tutu.
"Oh, yes, he did," Claude said to Sherlock, admiring the lock of red hair curling around her ear. "It costs nearly two hundred dollars a bottle here."
Bowie said, "Was he tipsy when he left?"
"I wouldn't say tipsy, no. He ordered another bottle, then paused and appeared to think about it. He changed his mind, waved me away. I didn't notice him after that."
"Okay," Savich said when the dapper Claude was out of earshot, "Dr. Franks did indeed say he'd had red wine with his venison. An entire bottle-did that make him slow, less careful?"
"Well, he certainly realized another bottle might impair him," Sherlock said. "Speaking of wine, does anyone want a nice dry chardonnay for dinner?"
Bowie shook his head, smiling. "None for me, I don't drink."
Sherlock's left eyebrow hoisted itself. "Health reasons?"
"No, not really," Bowie said, and nothing more.
They enjoyed a lovely sauced scampi over rice, crème brûlée for dessert, and rich dark French espresso.
It was nearly midnight when Bowie dropped them back at the Norman Bates Inn. Fifteen minutes later, they were tucked into a soft bed with Janet Leigh's silent earsplitting screams on the wall behind them. Sherlock said against his shoulder, "The espresso was a mistake," and sighed.
"Maybe not," Savich said, and turned to her. After a couple of minutes, she whispered against his mouth, "Well, another dessert is always nice."
15
Tuesday morning
Erin let a well-dressed, heavy-eyed Bowie Richards into her apartment the next morning at seven thirty.
"You don't look good, Agent Richards. You on an all-night bender with those wild agents from Washington?"
"All I can hope is they had as miserable a sleepless night as I did. We all drank espresso, and the stuff was so strong it could have blasted a rocket into space. That and thinking about this gnarly murder kept me up until nearly three a.m."
Erin cocked her head to one side, tried to look uninterested, but polite. "And what did you decide after all that thinking?"
He eyed her, realized he liked the oversized white shirt over the black leggings, the ballet flats on her feet. Her hair was pulled back in a French braid, big dangly hoops in her ears. She looked all dancer this morning, not a whiff of P.I. "About what? Oh, the murder. It's interesting, we found a waiter at Chez Pierre last night who'd heard the murdered man on a cell phone saying he'd made up his mind and to leave him alone-" Bowie stopped, frowned, shook his head. "Forget I said that, I shouldn't have. Shows you my brain is still singing the espresso blues. Where's Georgie? We've got to leave for school pretty soon."
Yeah, sure, I'll forget it. It's already emblazoned on my brain. Erin said, "I heard the murdered guy's name on the news this morning. Helmut Blauvelt."
"Yeah, I forgot we let out that information."
"It's lucky the waiter at Chez Pierre understood German, isn't it?"
"Oh, he didn't. Blauvelt spoke in English, only a slight accent, Estafan told us, until the end, then Blauvelt switched to German-what's wrong with me? Keep that confidential, okay?"
Erin said easily, "Not a problem. Georgie! Your dad's here."
"I'm eating oatmeal," Georgie called out from the kitchen. "You want some, Daddy?"
Bowie rubbed his eyes. "Oatmeal? She never eats oatmeal. How'd you manage that?"
"I've got a special recipe passed down from my great-grandfather. Georgie took one bite and blissed out. She doesn't want to let the oatmeal out of her sight. Have you had breakfast yet, Agent Richards? Maybe Great-granddad's oatmeal will glue things back together again in your brain."
"Call me Bowie, please."
"All right. Call me Erin."
"Erin." He took a quick look at his watch. "I really don't have time, I've got so much stuff to do and-your great-grandfather's recipe, you say?"
"Yep. He was Polish, but he always claimed he'd learned how to make it when he lived in Inverness for three years. Come on, Bowie, come into my kitchen. It'll just take a minute. Believe me, Georgie isn't going to budge from the kitchen table until she cleans out her bowl, and it's a big bowl."
Erin eyed him as he took a tiny bite, nodded, then went to work on the oatmeal with brown sugar sprinkled on top, nodding some more as his daughter spoke nonstop to him, at him, really-about how she took a running start and landed right in the middle of the red beanbag in the living room, and then Erin tried it but she was too big and fell off the side, before switching to Erin's bedtime story about a ballet dancer who hated wearing a tutu.
