Deathtrap (Crossbreed #3)(20)
Patrick’s little boy sat Indian style beneath the center of the table. It was dark down there, only a little candlelight filtering through the tablecloth. He quickly held a finger to his lips to ask for silence. I did the same to let him know I’d keep his secret. The poor little guy was probably too frightened to come out—not at all the same spirited youngster I remembered from the party. He had a black mask made of fabric over his eyes and a cape around his neck. It reminded me of a period in my youth when I wore a pair of ballerina slippers everywhere, believing they’d magically make me into a dancer. My father told me that I’d inherited both his left feet, and that was why he couldn’t send me to ballet class.
I pointed at the fork. He timidly leaned forward and handed it to me.
When I sat back up in my chair, Patrick was pouring himself a second glass.
“Aye,” he said. “I have a few bottles of Chartreuse left over that I bought a century ago, but it’s a shame I couldn’t preserve any of the ale. Nobody makes it like the monks. Are you a beer drinker, Miss Black?”
“Not really. It’s okay, but if I’m going to drink, I usually want something strong.”
“How’s the wine?”
I lifted the glass. “Delightful.”
No sense in offending our host with the truth that his wine was so bitter that I had to bite my tongue to keep from making a face.
“Perhaps next time I’ll break out the Chartreuse.”
My eyes widened in horror when Shepherd lifted his spoon from the bowl and there was a whole turtle on it. He locked eyes with me for a moment before he put it back and continued eating the soup around it.
There were a lot of things I’d do in life, but eating tiny turtles wasn’t one of them.
“Is something the matter?” Patrick inquired.
My stomach churned as I stared down at my bowl, knowing what lurked beneath.
Shepherd chuckled. “She’s suffering from reptile dysfunction.”
Patrick snapped his fingers, and on command, his servant appeared. “Bring her another plate of the sandwiches.”
“Yes, sir.”
And just like that, my turtle nightmare went away. I reached for one of the cheese trays between Shepherd and me and filled up a small plate.
“This work hasn’t been kind to you,” Patrick said, nodding at the scars on Shepherd’s hands.
Shepherd continued slurping on his soup. “I handle the job just fine.”
I placed a cube of cheese on my leg, and seconds later, I felt a little hand grab it away. It put a smile on my face, and I must have made a sound.
“What amuses you, Miss Black?”
“I just had a tickle in my throat.”
My smile quickly waned when I saw the turtle shell appear again in Shepherd’s bowl.
“Mr. Moon, would you mind if we had a private conversation after dinner? I wasn’t expecting a guest, and I wanted to give you some private words of gratitude.”
I looked between them. “That’s fine. I can wait in the foyer.”
When I pushed my chair back, Patrick stretched out his arm and placed his hand on the table.
“We’ve still got three more courses to go.”
I felt myself turning green. “Oh, that’s… perfect.”
Shepherd coughed and laughed at the same time. My napkin fell to the floor, and when I bent down to pick it up, I saw the little boy had fallen asleep, his hand resting on the toe of Shepherd’s boot.
The kid had the right idea. That was exactly where I would rather have been instead of stressing out about which fork to use.
I should have been the one to go to the club. Now I was stuck in the middle of a culinary nightmare that was probably karma getting revenge for what I’d done to Wyatt this morning. It made me wonder what Gem and Claude were doing.
Probably dancing and making a toast after solving the case.
Gem glanced at herself in an oval mirror as she and Claude entered the lust room at Club Nine. She was feeling radiant, her purple trumpet skirt set off by her black shirt and stockings. The spotlights above caught her hair, and she briefly admired it before moving on. Claude didn’t like a uniform dye job, so there were darker shades of lavender mixed in with a gradual fade to silver at the ends. Because she usually wore it parted off-center, the overlapping colors made it luscious to look at. He hadn’t taken up the length any, so her wavy locks were just where she liked them—a smidge past her shoulders. She absolutely adored Claude for all he did to make her stylish. And yet here she was, looking and feeling gorgeous, and not one man in the club had offered to buy her a soda.
Maybe it had something to do with the six-and-a-half-foot Chitah at her side.
Two men had showed interest, but they were drunk. Gem didn’t drink, and a drunken man was about as attractive as a serial killer. She could have flared her energy like she was supposed to in a public place, drawing attention to herself, but all that did was attract the wrong kind of men.
She and Claude had already questioned the bartender, who seemed like a nice guy. Hooper remembered the victim, Jennifer Moore, and said she’d quit working there a little over a year ago. He confirmed she was a Sensor who used to spike the specialty drinks. The manager had found out she was pregnant when she’d put too much violence in someone’s drink and a customer almost died. They hadn’t seen her in there since.