particular journalist had decided to express his admiration of Miss Karole Linton’s exquisitely sculpted derrière by taking several close-up pictures of it.
“Maybe Mayor Gifford snagged the last proper bunny suit at the store,” suggested PC Lucy.
“Even so, no need for her to go around flaunting like that,” sniffed PC Sara.
PC Lucy raised an eyebrow. Her friend was not exactly the shy type when it came to squeezing herself into skintight leather leggings and the occasional dangerously low-cut top. In fact, if PC Sara’s perennial crackpot diets ever succeeded in shifting the magical, and frankly invisible, ‘last ten pounds’ that she claimed were keeping her from an appearance down at the local swimming pool, PC Lucy had no doubts that her friend would be more than happy to take up the role of Easter Bunny Girl at the next opportunity.
“Now, here’s a man who looks good in pink,” said PC Sara. She expanded a photo of Mayor Gifford, standing with one paw around Mr Whittaker, the deputy mayor, and the other clasping the shoulders of Mr Kabilt, M.P. for the neighbouring constituency.
“He does?” Of course, PC Lucy had grudgingly admired Mayor Gifford’s achievements over the last few years in cleaning up Cowton’s High Street and opening the new sports centre, conveniently located only a few minutes’ walk from the police station. But she’d never given much thought to the mayor’s apparent attraction when it came to the female vote.
“It’s the shoulders,” said PC Sara. “Everyone likes a man with good shoulders.”
“Shoulders or no shoulders, it’s no excuse for him being a right royal pain this afternoon.” It seemed to her that Mayor Gifford had taken the murder as something of a personal affront. Perhaps he’d had plans to make use of Miranda’s telegenic presence as part of his political campaign, and was now feeling unjustly thwarted.
“Bah! The English, why is it they love so much the dressing up?” came a familiar voice from behind them. “They dress as animals, as robots, as spacemen. The men dress as women, the women dress as the men. I saw once a man run a race dressed as a teapot!” Clearly, competing in a sports event in the guise of the nation’s favourite beverage constituted a grave offence in the eyes of Chef Maurice.
“Maurice, this is a police station. You can’t just barge into the office whenever you want. Are you reporting a crime?”
Chef Maurice sank down into PC Alistair’s empty chair and swept off his hat. “There has been un désastre at the restaurant!”
“Really?”
By now, PC Lucy was more than familiar with Chef Maurice’s idea of what constituted a disaster. Just last month, he’d called up the station in a fury, insisting that one of his customers must be stealing all the restaurant’s teaspoons. A search of the chef’s own laundry hamper, however, had unveiled no less than four dozen spoons, buried and forgotten in various pockets, and five more tucked into the lining of his tall white chef’s hat. “In case of emergency,” had been his defence.
“ Oui . I come to warn you, mademoiselle , that Patrick faces a most grave danger.” Voice brimming with indignation, he proceeded to outline Mrs Merland’s catastrophic offer.
“And what has Patrick said?” asked PC Lucy, her stomach doing a little flip.
“He says nothing! He sits there, silent as the lamb! You must talk to him, mademoiselle , and make him see the sense. Even if you must use”—an alarming eyebrow waggle was here employed—“every means available to you.”
PC Lucy glared at him, though she wondered if she should be flattered or insulted by the chef’s insinuation about her special powers of persuasion.
“Maurice, you know as well as I do, this decision is entirely up to Patrick. It’s not for us to make his career choices for him.”
Chef Maurice looked perplexed at this last statement.
“Then you will not help?” he said finally, in injured
“Maybe Mayor Gifford snagged the last proper bunny suit at the store,” suggested PC Lucy.
“Even so, no need for her to go around flaunting like that,” sniffed PC Sara.
PC Lucy raised an eyebrow. Her friend was not exactly the shy type when it came to squeezing herself into skintight leather leggings and the occasional dangerously low-cut top. In fact, if PC Sara’s perennial crackpot diets ever succeeded in shifting the magical, and frankly invisible, ‘last ten pounds’ that she claimed were keeping her from an appearance down at the local swimming pool, PC Lucy had no doubts that her friend would be more than happy to take up the role of Easter Bunny Girl at the next opportunity.
“Now, here’s a man who looks good in pink,” said PC Sara. She expanded a photo of Mayor Gifford, standing with one paw around Mr Whittaker, the deputy mayor, and the other clasping the shoulders of Mr Kabilt, M.P. for the neighbouring constituency.
“He does?” Of course, PC Lucy had grudgingly admired Mayor Gifford’s achievements over the last few years in cleaning up Cowton’s High Street and opening the new sports centre, conveniently located only a few minutes’ walk from the police station. But she’d never given much thought to the mayor’s apparent attraction when it came to the female vote.
“It’s the shoulders,” said PC Sara. “Everyone likes a man with good shoulders.”
“Shoulders or no shoulders, it’s no excuse for him being a right royal pain this afternoon.” It seemed to her that Mayor Gifford had taken the murder as something of a personal affront. Perhaps he’d had plans to make use of Miranda’s telegenic presence as part of his political campaign, and was now feeling unjustly thwarted.
“Bah! The English, why is it they love so much the dressing up?” came a familiar voice from behind them. “They dress as animals, as robots, as spacemen. The men dress as women, the women dress as the men. I saw once a man run a race dressed as a teapot!” Clearly, competing in a sports event in the guise of the nation’s favourite beverage constituted a grave offence in the eyes of Chef Maurice.
“Maurice, this is a police station. You can’t just barge into the office whenever you want. Are you reporting a crime?”
Chef Maurice sank down into PC Alistair’s empty chair and swept off his hat. “There has been un désastre at the restaurant!”
“Really?”
By now, PC Lucy was more than familiar with Chef Maurice’s idea of what constituted a disaster. Just last month, he’d called up the station in a fury, insisting that one of his customers must be stealing all the restaurant’s teaspoons. A search of the chef’s own laundry hamper, however, had unveiled no less than four dozen spoons, buried and forgotten in various pockets, and five more tucked into the lining of his tall white chef’s hat. “In case of emergency,” had been his defence.
“ Oui . I come to warn you, mademoiselle , that Patrick faces a most grave danger.” Voice brimming with indignation, he proceeded to outline Mrs Merland’s catastrophic offer.
“And what has Patrick said?” asked PC Lucy, her stomach doing a little flip.
“He says nothing! He sits there, silent as the lamb! You must talk to him, mademoiselle , and make him see the sense. Even if you must use”—an alarming eyebrow waggle was here employed—“every means available to you.”
PC Lucy glared at him, though she wondered if she should be flattered or insulted by the chef’s insinuation about her special powers of persuasion.
“Maurice, you know as well as I do, this decision is entirely up to Patrick. It’s not for us to make his career choices for him.”
Chef Maurice looked perplexed at this last statement.
“Then you will not help?” he said finally, in injured
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