The menu, taped to the wall, was a dream come true. We studied the offerings with little moans of delight. Dishes ranged from piquant to incendiary, and I reckoned that we might have been wise to wear sweats.
The stumpy waiter who came bustling to take our order had a long white apron cinched under his armpits. He also had a mustache that Pancho Villa might have envied.
"Tonight's spassel," he announced proudly, "is pork loin basted with red mole sauce and served with black bean relish in a tortilla with roast tomato chili sauce. Ver' nice."
"Mild?" I asked him.
"You crazy?" he said.
But we skipped the spassel. Meg relaxed her stricture against red meat to order an appetizer of Kick-Ass Venison Chili. (I am not making it up; that's what it was called.) Her entree was Cajun Seafood Jambalaya (including crawdads) in a hot Creole sauce with garlicky sausage rice.
I went for an appetizer of Swamp Wings (fried frog legs with pepper sauce) and, for a main course, Sirloin Fajita. It was described on the menu as a grilled marinated steak basted with Jack Daniel's and served with sauteed peppers and onions and a lot of other swell stuff, all inflammatory. Meg asked for a diet cola and I ordered a bottle of Corona beer.
"And a stomach pump for two," I was tempted to add, but didn't.
I shall not attempt to describe the actual consumption of that combustible meal. Suffice to say that it was accompanied by gasps, brow-mopping, and frequent gulps of cold diet cola and Mexican beer. Our tonsils did not actually shriek in protest, but my stomach began to glow with an incandescent heat, presaging an insomniac night.
Of more importance to this narrative was our conversation that evening, for it included tidbits of information that would have aided my investigation-if I had had the wit to recognize clues in Meg's casual remarks. But I was too busy gnawing fried frog legs and swilling Corona to pay close attention. Do you suppose S. Holmes ever neglected a case because Mrs. Hudson brought him a plump mutton chop?
"Good news," Meg said, working on her chili. "I found an apartment. I already have the keys. I'm moving in tomorrow."
"Wonderful!" I said. "Where?"
"Riviera Beach. It's just a small place and I only have it till October. But the off-season rent is reasonable. I'm going to fly back to Pennsylvania, pack up more clothes and things, and then drive my Toyota back. Now I'll be able to stop freeloading on my sister."
"And get away from Harry," I added.
"That's the best part," she said. "I'll still see Laverne, of course, but not in that house."
We discussed her hope of becoming a personal trainer to Palm Beach residents seeking eternal youth through diet and exercise. I offered to supply a list of friends and acquaintances who might be potential clients.
"That would be a big help, Archy," she said gratefully. "Laverne has already given me some names, but I need more prospects. How about you?"
I laughed. "I'm really not the disciplined grunt-and-groan type. I try to do a daily swim, as I told you, and I play tennis and golf occasionally. I admit I'm hardly in fighting trim, but regular workouts are not my cup of sake. Too lazy, I suspect. I'm surprised you're willing to accept men as clients. I thought you'd limit your efforts to reducing female flab."
"Oh no," she said. "I'll be happy to train men. As a matter of fact, Harry Willigan has already volunteered to be my first client. But he's not interested in improving his health and fitness."
"No?" I said. "What is he interested in?"
I knew the answer to that, and it was just what I expected.
"Me," Meg Trumble said.
Our entrees arrived and we plunged in.
"I hope your sister isn't aware of her husband's interest," I said.
"Of course she's aware. She trusts me, but secretly she'll probably be relieved to have me out of the house."
That amused me. "If there was anything going on between you and Harry, your moving out wouldn't end it. Facilitate it more likely."
"Well, there's nothing going on," she said crossly, "and never will be. I told you what I think of that man."
"I share your opinion," I assured her. "He can be grim. It's amazing that Laverne puts up with his nonsense."
"Oh, she ignores him as much as she can. And she has other interests. She's taking tennis lessons, and she's very active in local clubs. She's at meetings two or three nights a week. But enough about Laverne and Harry. How are you making out on finding Peaches?"
"Not very well," I said. "No progress at all, except for one oddity that needs looking into."
I thought it would do no harm to tell her about the missing cat carrier. I thought it would surprise her, and that she'd immediately guess what I had already assumed: someone in the Willigan household had stuffed Peaches in the carrier and hauled her away.
But Meg kept her head lowered, picked through the jambalaya for shrimp, and said only: "Oh, I'm sure it will turn up somewhere around the house."
We finished our dinner with scoops of lemon sherbet, which helped diminish the conflagration-but not enough.
"Everything hokay?" the mustachioed waiter asked.
"Fine," I said. "If you don't mind a charred epiglottis."
I paid the tab with plastic and we went out to the Miata. I took along a handful of paper napkins and wiped the seats reasonably dry. The squall had passed, the night air was freshening, and there were even a few stars peeking out from behind drifting clouds.
"Yummy dinner," Meg said. "Thank you. I really enjoyed it."
"We must dine there again," I said. "Perhaps after the turn of the century."
The drive home was a delight. We sang "It Ain't Gonna Rain No Mo' " and several other songs of a more recent vintage. Meg had a throaty alto, and I thought we harmonized beautifully. Then, like an idiot, I suggested we do "Always," and she started weeping again. Not heaving sobs; just a quiet cry.
"Sorry," I said.
"Not your fault," she said, sniffling. "It's memories. I'll get over it."
"Of course you will," I said, not all that sure.
But she shook off the brief attack of the megrims and, spirits restored, began describing her new apartment. Suddenly she stopped.
"Hey, Archy," she said, "would you like to see it? It's not too late, is it?"
"Not late at all," I said, "and I'd like to see it."
It took a good hour to get back to Riviera Beach, but the weather improved as we drove. It became mellow with a salty breeze, palm fronds rustling, the sea providing a fine background of whispering surf.
It turned out to be the pure night I had hoped for. I wish I could say the same for my thoughts.
Meg now had her own private pad; that was provocative. Even more stimulating was the fact that it was in Riviera Beach, as distant from Connie Garcia's espionage network as I could reasonably hope. The McNally luck seemed to be holding, and I resolved not to waste it. Luck is such a precious commodity, is it not? Especially on a voluptuous night in the company of a young woman whose clavicles drove me mad with longing.
I lied gamely and told Meg how attractive her apartment was. In truth, I found it utterly without charm. It had obviously been furnished as a rental property; everything was utilitarian and designed to withstand rough usage. Nondescript pictures were bolted to the walls and the dinnerware on the open kitchen shelves was white plastic and looked as if it might bounce if dropped.
"Of course it's a little bleak right now," Meg admitted. "It needs some personal things scattered about. But the air conditioner works fine and there's even a dishwasher. I can stand it till October. By that time I hope to have something better lined up."
"I'm sure you will," I said. "Is the phone connected?"
"Not yet. I'll have that done when I return. After I get settled in and fill up the fridge, I hope you'll come over for dinner."