short falls and zero floors. But Vernon had managed to chug through this Depression tunnel and come out into clean sunlit air, leaving Melrose to think there was nothing that Vernon Rice wouldn’t try.
They were walking on Thames Street, out in the cold, glassy air, when Melrose asked him, “Is there anything you wouldn’t take a whack at?”
Vernon stopped on the pavement, looking thoughtful.
Melrose laughed. “If you really have to think about it, the answer’s no. Given sufficient challenge, you’d try anything.”
Vernon smiled and they walked on down Thames Street.
Sniper’s would not be easy to find if you didn’t know exactly where it was down a dozen steps in a terraced building that bore no sign, charged with a sort of secrecy that would hardly pay off for a restaurant. Yet it certainly wasn’t hurting for business. The arrangement, if not the actual ambience, made him think of the Nine-One-Nine, the gig of Stan Keeler, Jury’s guitarist friend.
Sniper’s really was a bit like a jungle. Light was murky, the plant life enormous. On either side of the foyer was a big aquarium whose neon-bright and startled fish swam in quick jabs as if searching for a way out.
The hostess, not meant to be part of the decor as she was dressed in simple, businesslike black, smiled at Vernon in a way that suggested he was a welcome addition to the maneuvers. She led them along a path through the black-green equatorial room. The size of the plants and their position between tables gave the illusion of concealment. The webbed netting and vines on the ceiling contributed to this, and recessed lighting was so artfully placed among the plants it diffused light into a mellow glow around them. Yet something kept the decor from a cloying cuteness. It was relaxing despite its metaphorical implications.
“Great place for a murder, isn’t it?”
Melrose dropped back into the real world, delighted that Vernon had brought the matter up. “I seem to have dropped in on your stepfather at just the wrong time.”
“Or the right one.” Vernon smiled.
Melrose fumbled his silver around and wondered if Vernon Rice could read his mind and retreated momentarily behind the menu, filled with exotic-sounding dishes scattered among the ones he’d heard described as “soul food” and “comfort food” and very American: meat loaf and mashed potatoes, hot roast beef sandwiches. There were, of course, filets and fish, such as Dover sole, grilled, broiled, cooked however you wanted it. So why was he homesick for food he had never had at home? Once more forgetting murder-which at the moment struck him as quaintly dull or else an anachronism-he asked this question of Vernon.
“I mean, we never had meat loaf. It’s American food, anyway. Why would I be homesick for American food?”
“Maybe,” said Vernon, eyes still on his menu, “it’s not the food.”
“Well… but what about the place?”
“Maybe it’s not the place.”
Melrose protested. “But if it’s neither, why? I don’t get it.”
“Jung probably would. Collective unconscious or something.”
“Meat loaf in the collective unconscious? Why doesn’t that sound right?” Just then Melrose realized he was speaking in very personal terms. To how many people had he ever confessed homesickness?
Was this Rice’s secret? Was he himself so honest and so engaging he made you want to come clean? In this way he reminded Melrose of Richard Jury. It was the gift. He thought about this and thought he’d like to see them together, outcharming each other. For it was charm, a whole vat of it. He smiled, thinking of James Joyce.
“Why are you smiling?”
“James Joyce and Samuel Beckett could sit in a room and say nothing to each other for endless periods. I’ve always thought that was as good as companionship gets.”
“I agree.” Vernon frowned, considering. “Want to try it?”
Melrose laughed out loud. “Do I want to
Vernon laughed as the waiter, dressed in an olive drab T-shirt and black jeans, came to take their order. Grilled sea bass. Meat loaf and mashed potatoes.
“Tell me about your plans for Aggrieved. He’s a wonderful horse, incidentally.”
Sorry that the talk of the murder had made a detour back to the horse, Melrose said, “He was talking about the business end, syndicating one or two of his horses.”
“Right. It’s the best thing he could do, but he doesn’t want to. He seems to look at that as filthy lucre, you know.”
“Well, he also told me the idea of selling ‘seasons,’ which he apparently does.”
Vemon nodded. “He does, but not enough. Says he doesn’t want his stallions overtaxed.”
“An interesting way of putting it. Anyway, I thought perhaps you could help me do this for Aggrieved. Sell seasons.”
“Why? You don’t strike me as in need of capital. Not with what you paid for that horse.”
Melrose didn’t comment on his need, rightly assessed by Rice. “Aggrieved has a very famous bloodline. I should think it would be easy.”
Vernon shook his head. “Not really, not if you don’t have a working stud farm. See, when an owner buys what we call seasons, in this instance for Aggrieved, and if something happens to the horse, he’d expect to be switched to another equally valuable horse or have his money back. I think you’d be better off waiting. If you did it now, not understanding what’s involved, you’d just be buying yourself a headache. Believe me. Ryder’s business is a tricky one. Worse than farming in its unpredictability. When you acquire other horses, it would be best to stable them with a reliable stud farm and a reliable trainer. That’s what most owners do.”
Melrose opened his mouth to argue, as if he really were serious about this horse business, realized he wasn’t and closed his mouth. One could be convinced at times one’s lies were the truth.
The waiter was setting down their plates and Melrose bathed his face in the fragrant steam rising from his meat loaf. “I’ll give it some thought.” Then, as if suddenly recalling it, he said, “I got there just as the woman’s body was loaded into the ambulance. Murder has a way of making other subjects irrelevant.”
“Well, this one’s as peculiar as hell. Cambridge police want me up there this evening to have a look at the body, see if I know her. From Arthur’s description, she doesn’t sound familiar. I admit I’m curious as hell.” He shrugged. “But my car’s in the shop. I’ll rent a car, I suppose.”
Melrose could hardly believe his luck! “Cambridge isn’t far. I could easily run you there.”
Vernon laughed. “You kidding? That’s damned nice of you.”
“Not at all, not at all.” Melrose refilled their glasses with a very good Brunello, saying, “And I confess, like you, I’m curious. I’ve never been on the spot when somebody’s been murdered and that she was found lying in the middle of the racecourse was really, well, weird; it couldn’t have been an accident.”
“Hardly. When Arthur called to tell me, before the words ‘body on the course’ were spoken, I froze. I thought it might be Nellie.” Vernon stopped eating and stared out over the tables and the plants, transfixed.
