methodology?" said Jane, stabbing small skewer stopped with Bakelite dice through the olives.
Detective Oh, as it turned out, did like an occasional martini and seemed pleased at the arrangement of vintage cocktail collectibles laid out on the table. He appreciated the clean design of the shaker and glasses, the whimsy of the olives, the tang of the cheese straws, and the irony of the centerpiece— a finger floating in its own little preservative of choice.
"It seems logical that the finger belonged to Mr. Bateman," said Oh, handing Jane back the photograph of the family.
Jane and Nick waited, but Detective Oh did not continue.
"That's all?" Jane asked.
Oh held up one of the delicate cheese straws, nodded, and took a tentative bite.
"Shouldn't we check it out? See how old it is or something? So we can tell if it was Bateman's?" asked Nick.
"I'm afraid that two months in formaldehyde would have the same effect as two years— or two dozen. There's no way to date it."
Oh noted Nick's disappointment and added, "Of course, if there was any evidence of a crime or an old police report, maybe this finger could shed some…"
Rita, the German shepherd that had joined the household over the summer, perked up her ears just before Jane heard a knock at the door.
"Charley must have gotten out of his department dinner," Jane said, rising. She knew he had taken to knocking before entering so she wouldn't feel he was being too familiar, and she appreciated the respect. At the same time, though, it annoyed her that he couldn't just use his key and stop walking on eggshells. Then again, hadn't she laid the intricate eggshell parquetry herself?
Key or no key, it wasn't Charley. Even though he knew she adored forties tablecloths, complete with dancing fruit and jitterbugging knives and forks, Charley would not stand at the front door with a turquoise-and-red cowboy-print tablecloth over his head.
"I am the ghost of vintage hand-printed textiles. Treat me with vodka, or I will trick you with confusing machine reproductions."
"Timmy!" Jane hugged the wrapped figure. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking to see if you made your lucky five today," he said, shaking out and folding the tablecloth. "When you called me this morning, I was up in Kenosha at a monster sale, so I thought I'd pop in for sustenance on my way back to Kankakee. Who's here?"
Not waiting for an answer, Tim walked into the living room, saluted Nick, and raised an eyebrow at Detective Oh.
"Jane on another crime spree, Detective?" he asked, shaking Oh's hand.
"Hardly, Mr. Lowry. All quiet at your flower shop?"
"So quiet you'd hardly know I was in business. Kankakee is so provincial when it comes to shopping in places where bodies were found."
Tim took the drink Jane handed him and slumped into an overstuffed armchair.
"After the initial rush of customers who wanted to see how long a chalk outline really lasted— and they were all, of course, 'just looking'— my flower business has taken a turn for the worse." Tim sipped his drink. "However, in the perverse way of things, my antique sales and special orders have been through the roof."
"People might not want their wedding flowers tainted by murder, but an inlaid mahogany highboy chest that's tasted mystery only adds to the patina, yes?" asked Jane.
"Guess so. Got anything heartier than these cheese doodles? What's this?"
Nick, Jane, and Oh simultaneously shouted no as Tim reached for the jar.
Jane reached out protectively as Tim turned the jar in the lamplight. For her, the finger had ceased to be a freakish specimen and had taken on the personality of Bateman. He was, after all, a saloon keeper, and she knew something about them. She often bought photos and personal memorabilia around which she daydreamed and constructed whole lives from the spare parts she collected after the principals were gone. Should she feel less about an actual spare part?
"Tim, this is Bateman. Bateman, Tim," Jane said.
Tim
Detective Oh, as it turned out, did like an occasional martini and seemed pleased at the arrangement of vintage cocktail collectibles laid out on the table. He appreciated the clean design of the shaker and glasses, the whimsy of the olives, the tang of the cheese straws, and the irony of the centerpiece— a finger floating in its own little preservative of choice.
"It seems logical that the finger belonged to Mr. Bateman," said Oh, handing Jane back the photograph of the family.
Jane and Nick waited, but Detective Oh did not continue.
"That's all?" Jane asked.
Oh held up one of the delicate cheese straws, nodded, and took a tentative bite.
"Shouldn't we check it out? See how old it is or something? So we can tell if it was Bateman's?" asked Nick.
"I'm afraid that two months in formaldehyde would have the same effect as two years— or two dozen. There's no way to date it."
Oh noted Nick's disappointment and added, "Of course, if there was any evidence of a crime or an old police report, maybe this finger could shed some…"
Rita, the German shepherd that had joined the household over the summer, perked up her ears just before Jane heard a knock at the door.
"Charley must have gotten out of his department dinner," Jane said, rising. She knew he had taken to knocking before entering so she wouldn't feel he was being too familiar, and she appreciated the respect. At the same time, though, it annoyed her that he couldn't just use his key and stop walking on eggshells. Then again, hadn't she laid the intricate eggshell parquetry herself?
Key or no key, it wasn't Charley. Even though he knew she adored forties tablecloths, complete with dancing fruit and jitterbugging knives and forks, Charley would not stand at the front door with a turquoise-and-red cowboy-print tablecloth over his head.
"I am the ghost of vintage hand-printed textiles. Treat me with vodka, or I will trick you with confusing machine reproductions."
"Timmy!" Jane hugged the wrapped figure. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking to see if you made your lucky five today," he said, shaking out and folding the tablecloth. "When you called me this morning, I was up in Kenosha at a monster sale, so I thought I'd pop in for sustenance on my way back to Kankakee. Who's here?"
Not waiting for an answer, Tim walked into the living room, saluted Nick, and raised an eyebrow at Detective Oh.
"Jane on another crime spree, Detective?" he asked, shaking Oh's hand.
"Hardly, Mr. Lowry. All quiet at your flower shop?"
"So quiet you'd hardly know I was in business. Kankakee is so provincial when it comes to shopping in places where bodies were found."
Tim took the drink Jane handed him and slumped into an overstuffed armchair.
"After the initial rush of customers who wanted to see how long a chalk outline really lasted— and they were all, of course, 'just looking'— my flower business has taken a turn for the worse." Tim sipped his drink. "However, in the perverse way of things, my antique sales and special orders have been through the roof."
"People might not want their wedding flowers tainted by murder, but an inlaid mahogany highboy chest that's tasted mystery only adds to the patina, yes?" asked Jane.
"Guess so. Got anything heartier than these cheese doodles? What's this?"
Nick, Jane, and Oh simultaneously shouted no as Tim reached for the jar.
Jane reached out protectively as Tim turned the jar in the lamplight. For her, the finger had ceased to be a freakish specimen and had taken on the personality of Bateman. He was, after all, a saloon keeper, and she knew something about them. She often bought photos and personal memorabilia around which she daydreamed and constructed whole lives from the spare parts she collected after the principals were gone. Should she feel less about an actual spare part?
"Tim, this is Bateman. Bateman, Tim," Jane said.
Tim
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