‘‘Mmm-mm.’’
‘‘Not used to steak tartare, Basil?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Some chefs mix in cognac as well, and garnish it with caviar. The Swiss even add anchovies. But it seems to me if you’re going for the taste of fresh, raw meat, tarting it up with extraneous flavors is a waste. Don’t you think so?’’
‘‘Uhhh.’’
‘‘Still, to revert to our earlier topic, I wonder why it had to be The Taming of the Shrew. There are more interesting Shakespeare pieces you could do.’’
‘‘Uhhh. The trustees, actually.’’
‘‘The trustees wanted it? Well, then I suppose you’re stuck with it. They do hold the purse strings. But I wonder, as time goes on, if you could convince them to do Shakespeare’s unappreciated masterpiece. I’m speaking of Titus Andronicus, of course.’’
‘‘Mmm.’’
‘‘It’s reassuring to me, as a Shakespeare enthusiast, that the Julie Taymor film of it is coming out, at least. But there isn’t any substitute for the immediacy of the stage.’’
‘‘I agree, of course,’’ Basil half whispered.
‘‘Real human beings near enough to touch. And Titus Andronicus is so Grand Guignol. It was Shakespeare’s breakout play, you know. Made his name. Although at the time people claimed to be upset at all the violence.’’
‘‘Media violence-’’
‘‘Fascinating to think that without it, without all that excess, we might never have known the name Shakespeare.’’
Basil picked up a heavy Francis I fork. He touched the chopped meat. It was lumpy and bright red, with tiny flecks of gristle or fat. He wondered whether he could tell anything if he touched it with his finger. If it was warm-? Had it been in the refrigerator, or was it body temperature?
But he couldn’t bear to touch it.
Falkland went on. ‘‘And what a story. The son of Tamora, queen of the Goths, has been killed by Titus. For revenge, she has her other two sons rape Titus’s daughter and cut out her tongue.’’
‘‘I know,’’ said Basil in a strangled voice.
‘‘Then Titus, in an antic burst of exquisite revenge, invites Tamora to dinner and unknown to her, serves her a pasty-we’d call it a potpie, I imagine-made from her two sons’ heads.’’
‘‘I’m familiar with Titus Andronicus, dammit!’’
‘‘Oh, of course you are, dear boy. You’re a director. Terribly sorry.’’
‘‘Uhhh.’’
‘‘My word, Basil, you aren’t eating.’’
‘‘Auuhhh-’’
‘‘You haven’t touched your steak tartare.’’
It could not be what he thought. It could not. How long had they been down in that cellar? And how would Falkland dispose of the-of the rest? But then he recalled the dock, the boathouse. The mansion backed directly onto Lake Michigan. Well, of course it did. It was on the high-rent side of Sheridan. But what about Sloan? Could Falkland possibly have Sloan so much in his pocket that he would do anything Falkland asked?
Inadvertently, Basil glanced up at Sloan, standing silent and lugubrious just left of the dining room door.
Falkland caught his glance. ‘‘Sloan is such a gem,’’ he said. ‘‘He’s been with me for twenty-three years now.’’
‘‘Oh, yes?’’
‘‘Since I agreed to accept him from the parole board. You see, they would only let him go if he had permanent residential employment.’’
‘‘Oh, yes, I see.’’
‘‘In a home with no children.’’
Basil stared at his plate. If he so much as sipped a smidgen of water, he would be sick. Staring at his plate was worse. He averted his eyes. But it was too late. Perspiration started up on his forehead and he could feel sweat running into his hair. His face was hot and his abdomen was deeply cold.
Basil threw his napkin down next to the army of forks. He half rose. ‘‘I don’t think I’m feeling very well-’’
‘‘Oh, please. We were so looking forward to this evening.’’
‘‘I think I’d better go.’’
He gagged out the words and could hardly understand what he himself had said. It sounded like ‘‘guhguh-go.’’
The swinging door from the pantry opened. Pamela stood in the spill of kitchen light, holding a dusty glass bottle.
‘‘It’s a terrible cliché, I know,’’ she said, smiling apologetically, ‘‘but I picked out everything else and finally went back to the Château d’Yquem.’’
‘‘Uh-uh-uh,’’ Basil said, trying to stand upright, but bent by the pains knifing through his stomach.
‘‘Basil! Are you ill?’’ she said.
Basil ran at a half crouch out of the dining room, through the long hall and the marble foyer, and pushed out the front door into the glorious cool night air.
‘‘Oh dear,’’ Pamela said, still smiling.
Falkland said, ‘‘Fun, darling?’’
‘‘Fun? The best we’ve ever done.’’
Animal Act by Claire McNab
‘‘G’day,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m Kylie Kendall. I’m here to see Arnold.’’
The bloke who’d opened the door of the flamboyant Beverly Hills mansion looked at me without enthusiasm. ‘‘Oh, yes. The Australian. Lisette told me you’d be coming by.’’
With his thick, curly black hair, deep brown eyes, straight nose, and jutting jaw, he was handsome, and he knew it. ‘‘Where’s the blonde?’’ he asked. ‘‘She’s the one who usually does the inspection.’’ His expression warmed slightly as he added, ‘‘Good-looking woman.’’
He was referring to my partner in Kendall & Creeling Investigative Services, Ariana Creeling. ‘‘She’s out of town on a case,’’ I said. ‘‘You’ll have to make do with me.’’
He grunted and stood aside. ‘‘I suppose you’d better come in.’’
I blinked at the entrance area. Two stories above, light flooded in from a huge circular stained-glass window set into the ceiling. Multicolored patches of light were splashed over the black marble floor and chalk white walls. A wide curving staircase with bloodred carpet led to the next floor. Scattered, apparently at random, were life-size sculptures of various animals- dogs, cats, a llama, a potbellied pig-displayed on white marble bases. The one closest to me depicted a huge bear rearing up on its hind legs. Engraved on the pedestal were the words LEONARD, DANCING.
‘‘Crikey,’’ I said.
I became aware the bloke was watching me with a sour smile. It was apparent he wasn’t intending to introduce himself, so I said, ‘‘And you’d be Paul Berkshire.’’
‘‘Proper little detective, aren’t you?’’
Actually, I wasn’t. I’d inherited fifty-one percent of Kendall & Creeling from my father, but wasn’t a private eye’s bootlace yet, just a trainee. There was no need to blab this to Paul Berkshire, of course.
He set off for the rear of the house down a wide hallway, not bothering to see if I was following. Even from the back he was a bonzer-looking bloke, with a strong neck, wide shoulders and a narrow waist. Paul Berkshire was the nephew of Rhea Berkshire, who before her death had been a crash-hot animal trainer for movies and TV. She’d been a heavy drinker, and six months ago-just before I came to the States- had died from an accidental overdose of bourbon and sleeping tablets. The very specific provisions she’d made in her will for her menagerie of animals at her ranch outside LA ensured that all went to good homes, many with other professional trainers. The ranch itself was sold, the proceeds going to animal charities.
One of her charges, however, received special treatment. This was Rhea’s most adored and successful subject, Arnold. Her will specified that no expense was to be spared. Her nephew, Paul, was to ensure that Arnold lived a life of luxury in Rhea’s Beverly Hills estate for the rest of his days.