Deadly Bones
by Boris Riskin
Summary
The murder of a friend in his home town of Sag Harbor sends Jake Wanderman, retired teacher and Shakespeare quoting investigator. on a dangerous and exciting quest to find the killer.
Excerpt
I was treating myself to Coq au Vin, meaning I was in the kitchen getting ready to cook it. The kitchen was my favorite room in the house. No, I take it back. It was a tie between the kitchen and the den. It had been ordinary when we bought the house but Rosalind had transformed it, with a couple of suggestions from me thrown in. The countertops were butcher block. We had a double sink with a PricePfister faucet that I could pull out and use as a spray. We’d decided to splurge on the stove and refrigerator so we got a Zero King refrigerator and a Viking stove that could cook a roast the size of a horse. The walls were done in wainscoting painted white and filled with pots and pans and strainers and all kinds of kitchen utensils. We had a window put in above the sink and a skylight. It was ridiculous and extravagant but Rosalind had said something to the effect that we only live once. Why not? She’d said. She’d been a pretty good cook but was content to let me do most of it, since you seem to enjoy it so much, she’d said.
I made Coq au Vin no more than two or three times a year because it was a lot of work. Rosalind loved the dish; it was one of her favorites, probably because it was loaded with butter and wine. This was the first time since she died that I’d attempted it. It came about because I had a sudden yearning. That was when I usually cooked it, the juices flowing with the memory of my introduction to it back in Paris when I was a young student there.
I had laid out all the ingredients: shallots, pearl onions, bacon, garlic, mushrooms, flour, brandy, a bottle of Burgundy, a garni of leek, celery, thyme and a bay leaf wrapped in cheesecloth. And of course, a 3-½ pound free range chicken that I’d cut up. I had the water boiling and was about to pour it over the shallots so that I could peel them when I heard a car pull into the driveway and a door slam.
I put the water back on the stove, turned the heat down and went to the door.
It was a woman flashing an ID at me. She was small, wore jeans and a tee shirt and a serious expression on an attractive face. “Detective Sienna Nolan,” she said. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.” I led her back into the den, my other favorite room in the house. Rosalind had made it like a library with floor to ceiling bookshelves filled mostly with books, some sculpture and pottery. The chairs were leather and comfortable. There was a 32-inch TV, a decent stereo system and a glass wall looking out to the garden. Most visitors, especially women, made some comment about the room, but not this one. “What can I do for you?” I asked.
“Answer a couple of questions.”
“What about?”
“Cormac Blather.”
“You’re one of the detectives on the case?”
“I’m the lead detective.”
“Have a seat,” I said.
“You live alone?” she asked.
“Yes. My wife died a short time ago.”
“I’m sorry.” She took a plastic bag out of her pocket and handed it to me. “Would you care to tell me anything about this?”
I took it from her. Inside the bag was my Private Investigator card. I’d given one to Cormac right after I’d had them printed. That was when I was still expecting to become a PI. I was handing them out all over the place, ostensibly to solicit business. I was also showing off. “What do you want me to say?”
“We found it in Mr. Blather’s files. I looked you up. You don’t have a license.”
“I know that.”
“Then tell me something. Why are you handing out business cards saying you’re a Private Investigator? That’s impersonation. A felony.”
“Give me a break. I wasn’t impersonating anything. When I gave it to him I expected to be one.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
“I didn’t want to work for somebody else for three years in order to get a license.”
“Okay. You and Blather were quite involved with each other at one time. Were you still involved?”
“No business, if that’s what you mean. Just friends. I had dinner with him and his daughter a couple of times, that’s all. I assume you know who his daughter is.”
“Toby Welch. Superstar. Do you do anything for her?”
“What do you mean, do anything?”
She shrugged. “Business, of course.”
“No.” I was beginning to be annoyed by this woman even though she had the most startling green eyes I’d ever seen. “And I don’t understand why you’re asking me these questions.”
“I’m interviewing everyone connected in some way with Mr. Blather. I’m trying to find out who killed him. That’s all. Am I clear?”
“Clear.”
“Let’s get back to Blather. You weren’t helping him out in his antique business or anything else?”
“No.”
“You’re sure? You were very connected with him and those stolen Fabergé eggs from Russia.”
“I see you’ve looked into his background. I said, no. That was then, this is now.”
“What about Bryson Mergenthaler?”
“What about him?”
“Blather did quite a lot of business with him. Did you have any contact with him?”
“None. As I said, l wasn’t working with Cormac. I’m retired. We were just friends.”
“What did you do before you retired?”
“I was a teacher. An English teacher. I specialized in Shakespeare.”
“Huh,” she said. “I never understood what the fuss was about when it came to Shakespeare. Left me cold.” She held out her hand for the plastic bag.
“When was the last time you saw Blather?”
“About a week ago. Maybe four or five days before he was killed.”
She took a card out of her wallet. “This is my card. If you think of anything that might be useful.”
We didn’t shake hands. I let her out the door and went back to the kitchen. The water had boiled out of the pot and the pot was getting scorched on the stove. “Shit!” I yelled, turning off the gas.
I ran water over the pot and then filled it to let it soak. I’d have to scrub it with Brillo for a half hour if I wanted to salvage it.
The ruined pot and the downright unpleasant interview took care of any desire to make the Coq au Vin. I put all the ingredients away and opened a can of chili.
Author's Biography
Mr. Riskin’s work has appeared over the years in a variety of literary magazines, including The New Yorker. Long an avid reader of mystery-thrillers, he finally decided to write one. The crackling result was Scrambled Eggs (2005), a taut thriller that introduced a salty new reluctant sleuth called Jake Wanderman, and an exciting new crime novelist called Boris Riskin.
Riskin now lives and writes in Sag Harbor, at the eastern end of New York’s Long Island, where the bay and ocean are close enough to touch he says, and the air is alive with stories. Jake Wanderman lives there too, back in action now as the Shakespeare-quoting anti-hero of Mr. Riskin’s new autopsy of the art world, Deadly Bones (2008).