Forever Odd

'You should write a series set in the culinary world.'

“Already, bookstore shelves overflow with mysteries about chefs who are detectives, food critics who are detectives…'

One of Ozzie's series features a hugely obese detective with a slim sexy wife who adores him. Ozzie has never married.

His other series is about a likable female detective with lots of neuroses-and bulimia. Ozzie is about as likely to develop bulimia himself as he is likely to change his wardrobe entirely to spandex.

'I've considered,' he said, 'starting a series about a detective who is a pet communicator.'

'One of those people who claims to be able to talk to animals?'

'Yes, but he would be the real thing.'

'So animals would help him solve crimes?' I asked.

'They would, yes, but they'd also complicate his cases. Dogs would almost always tell him the truth, but birds would often lie, and guinea pigs would be earnest but prone to exaggeration.'

'I feel for the guy already.'

In silence, Ozzie spread lemon marmalade on brioche, while I picked at the pineapple-cheese Danish with a fork.

I needed to leave. I needed to do something. Sitting still another moment seemed intolerable.

I nibbled some Danish.

We seldom sit in silence. He's never at a loss for words; I can usually find a few of my own.

After a minute or two, I realized that Ozzie was staring at me no less intently than was Terrible Chester.

I had attributed this lull in the conversation to his need to chew. Now I realized this could not be the case.

Brioche is made with eggs, yeast, and butter. It melts in your mouth with very little chewing.

Ozzie had fallen silent because he was brooding. And he was brooding about me.

'What?' I asked.

'You didn't come here for breakfast,' he said.

'Certainly not for this much breakfast.'

“And you didn't come here to tell me about Wilbur Jessup, or about Danny.'

'Well, yes, that is why I came, sir.'

'Then you've told me, and you obviously don't want that Danish, so I suppose you'll be going now.'

'Yes, sir,' I said, 'I should be going,' but I didn't get up from my chair.

Pouring a fragrant Colombian blend from a thermos shaped like a coffeepot, Ozzie did not once shift his eyes from me.

'I've never known you to be deceitful with anyone, Odd.'

'I assure you I can dissemble with the best of them, sir.'

'No, you can't. You're a poster boy for sincerity. You have all the guile of a lamb.'

I looked away from him-and discovered that Terrible Chester had descended from the roof beams. The cat sat on the top porch step, still staring intently at me.

'But more amazing still,' Ozzie continued, 'I've seldom known you to indulge in self- deceit.'

'When will I be canonized, sir?'

'Smart-mouthing your elders will forever keep you out of the company of saints.'

'Darn. I was looking forward to having a halo. It would make such a convenient reading lamp.'

“As for self-deceit, most people find it as essential for survival as air. You rarely indulge in it. Yet you insist you came here just to tell me about Wilbur and Danny.'

'Have I been insisting?'

'Not with conviction.'

'Why do you think I came here?' I asked.

'You've always mistaken my absolute self-assurance for profound thought,' he said without hesitation, 'so when you're looking for deep insight, you seek an audience with me.'

'You mean all the profound insights you've given me over the years were actually shallow?'

'Of course they were, dear Odd. Like you, I'm only human, even if I have eleven fingers.'

He does have eleven, six on his left hand. He says one in ninety thousand babies is born with this affliction. Surgeons routinely amputate the unneeded digit.

For some reason that Ozzie has never shared with me, his parents refused permission for the surgery. He was the fascination of other children: the eleven-fingered boy; eventually, the eleven-fingered fat boy; and then the eleven-fingered fat boy with the withering wit.

“As shallow as my insights might have been,' he said, 'they were sincerely offered.'

'That's some comfort, I guess.'

“Anyway you came here today with a burning philosophical question that's troubling you, but it troubles you so much you don't want to ask, after all.'

'No, that isn't it,' I said.

I looked at the congealing remains of my lobster omelet. At Terrible Chester. At the lawn. At the small woods so green in the morning sun.

Ozzie's moon-round face could be smug and loving at the same time. His eyes twinkled with an expectation of being proved right.

At last I said, 'You know Ernie and Pooka Ying.'

'Lovely people.'

'The tree in their backyard…'

'The brugmansia. It's a magnificent specimen.'

'Everything about it is deadly, every root and leaf.'

Ozzie smiled as Buddha would have smiled if Buddha had written mystery novels and had relished exotic methods of murder. He nodded approvingly. 'Exquisitely poisonous, yes.'

'Why would nice people like Ernie and Pooka want to grow such a deadly tree?'

'For one thing, because it's beautiful, especially when it's in flower.'

'The flowers are toxic, too.'

After popping a final morsel of marmaladed brioche into his mouth and savoring it, Ozzie licked his lips and said, 'One of those enormous blooms contains sufficient poison, if properly extracted, to kill perhaps a third of the people in Pico Mundo.'

'It seems reckless, even perverse, to spend so much time and effort nurturing such a deadly thing.'

'Does Ernie Ying strike you as a reckless and perverse man?'

'Just the opposite.'

'Ah, then Pooka must be the monster. Her self-deprecating manner must disguise a heart of the most malevolent intention.'

'Sometimes,' I said, 'it seems to me that a friend might not take such pleasure in making fun of me as you do.'

'Dear Odd, if one's friends do not openly laugh at him, they are not in fact his friends. How else would one learn to avoid saying those things that would elicit laughter from strangers? The mockery of friends is affectionate, and inoculates against foolishness.'

'That sure sounds profound,' I said.

'Medium shallow,' he assured me. 'May I educate you, lad?'

'You can try.'

'There's nothing reckless about growing the brugmansia. Equally poisonous plants are everywhere in Pico Mundo.'

I was dubious. 'Everywhere?'

'You're so busy with the supernatural world that you know too little about the natural.'

'I don't get much time to go bowling, either.'

'Those flowering oleander hedges all over town? Oleander in Sanskrit means 'horse killer.' Every part of the plant is deadly.'

'I like the variety with red flowers.'