I SUGGESTED THAT I HELP CLEAN OFF the table and wash the dishes before going, Little Ozzie—who is actually fifty pounds heavier than his father, Big Ozzie—dismissed the suggestion by gesturing emphatically with a slice of buttered toast.
“We’ve only been sitting here forty minutes. I’m never at the morning table less than an hour and a half. I do some of my finest plotting over breakfast coffee and raisin brioche.”
“You should write a series set in the culinary world.”
“Already, bookstore shelves overflow with mysteries about chefs who are detectives, food critics who are detectives….”
One of Ozzie’s series features a hugely obese detective with a slim sexy wife who adores him. Ozzie has never married.
His other series is about a likable female detective with lots of neuroses—and bulimia. Ozzie is about as likely to develop bulimia himself as he is likely to change his wardrobe entirely to spandex.
“I’ve considered,” he said, “starting a series about a detective who is a pet communicator.”
“One of those people who claims to be able to talk to animals?”
“Yes, but he would be the real thing.”
“So animals would help him solve crimes?” I asked.
“They would, yes, but they’d also complicate his cases. Dogs would almost always tell him the truth, but birds would often lie, and guinea pigs would be earnest but prone to exaggeration.”
“I feel for the guy already.”
In silence, Ozzie spread lemon marmalade on brioche, while I picked at the pineapple-cheese Danish with a fork.
I needed to leave. I needed to
do
something. Sitting still another moment seemed intolerable.
I nibbled some Danish.
We seldom sit in silence. He’s never at a loss for words; I can usually find a few of my own.
After a minute or two, I realized that Ozzie was staring at me no less intently than was Terrible Chester.
I had attributed this lull in the conversation to his need to chew. Now I realized this could not be the case.
Brioche is made with eggs, yeast, and butter. It melts in your mouth with very little chewing.
Ozzie had fallen silent because he was brooding. And he was brooding about me.
“What?” I asked.
“You didn’t come here for breakfast,” he said.
“Certainly not for
this much
breakfast.”
“And you didn’t come here to tell me about Wilbur Jessup, or about Danny.”
“Well, yes, that is why I came, sir.”
“Then you’ve told me, and you obviously don’t want that Danish, so I suppose you’ll be going now.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “I should be going,” but I didn’t get up from my chair.
Pouring a fragrant Colombian blend from a thermos shaped like a coffeepot, Ozzie did not once shift his eyes from me.
“I’ve never known you to be deceitful with anyone, Odd.”
“I assure you I can dissemble with the best of them, sir.”
“No, you can’t. You’re a poster boy for sincerity. You have all the guile of a lamb.”
I looked away from him—and discovered that Terrible Chester had descended from the roof beams. The cat sat on the top porch step, still staring intently at me.
“But more amazing still,” Ozzie continued, “I’ve seldom known you to indulge in
self
-deceit.”
“When will I be canonized, sir?”
“Smart-mouthing your elders will forever keep you out of the company of saints.”
“Darn. I was looking forward to having a halo. It would make such a convenient reading lamp.”
“As for self-deceit, most people find it as essential for survival as air. You rarely indulge in it. Yet you insist you came here just to tell me about Wilbur and Danny.”
“Have I been insisting?”
“Not with conviction.”
“Why do
you
think I came here?” I asked.
“You’ve always mistaken my absolute self-assurance for profound thought,” he said without hesitation, “so when you’re looking for deep insight, you seek an audience with me.”
“You mean all the profound insights you’ve given me over the years were
“We’ve only been sitting here forty minutes. I’m never at the morning table less than an hour and a half. I do some of my finest plotting over breakfast coffee and raisin brioche.”
“You should write a series set in the culinary world.”
“Already, bookstore shelves overflow with mysteries about chefs who are detectives, food critics who are detectives….”
One of Ozzie’s series features a hugely obese detective with a slim sexy wife who adores him. Ozzie has never married.
His other series is about a likable female detective with lots of neuroses—and bulimia. Ozzie is about as likely to develop bulimia himself as he is likely to change his wardrobe entirely to spandex.
“I’ve considered,” he said, “starting a series about a detective who is a pet communicator.”
“One of those people who claims to be able to talk to animals?”
“Yes, but he would be the real thing.”
“So animals would help him solve crimes?” I asked.
“They would, yes, but they’d also complicate his cases. Dogs would almost always tell him the truth, but birds would often lie, and guinea pigs would be earnest but prone to exaggeration.”
“I feel for the guy already.”
In silence, Ozzie spread lemon marmalade on brioche, while I picked at the pineapple-cheese Danish with a fork.
I needed to leave. I needed to
do
something. Sitting still another moment seemed intolerable.
I nibbled some Danish.
We seldom sit in silence. He’s never at a loss for words; I can usually find a few of my own.
After a minute or two, I realized that Ozzie was staring at me no less intently than was Terrible Chester.
I had attributed this lull in the conversation to his need to chew. Now I realized this could not be the case.
Brioche is made with eggs, yeast, and butter. It melts in your mouth with very little chewing.
Ozzie had fallen silent because he was brooding. And he was brooding about me.
“What?” I asked.
“You didn’t come here for breakfast,” he said.
“Certainly not for
this much
breakfast.”
“And you didn’t come here to tell me about Wilbur Jessup, or about Danny.”
“Well, yes, that is why I came, sir.”
“Then you’ve told me, and you obviously don’t want that Danish, so I suppose you’ll be going now.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “I should be going,” but I didn’t get up from my chair.
Pouring a fragrant Colombian blend from a thermos shaped like a coffeepot, Ozzie did not once shift his eyes from me.
“I’ve never known you to be deceitful with anyone, Odd.”
“I assure you I can dissemble with the best of them, sir.”
“No, you can’t. You’re a poster boy for sincerity. You have all the guile of a lamb.”
I looked away from him—and discovered that Terrible Chester had descended from the roof beams. The cat sat on the top porch step, still staring intently at me.
“But more amazing still,” Ozzie continued, “I’ve seldom known you to indulge in
self
-deceit.”
“When will I be canonized, sir?”
“Smart-mouthing your elders will forever keep you out of the company of saints.”
“Darn. I was looking forward to having a halo. It would make such a convenient reading lamp.”
“As for self-deceit, most people find it as essential for survival as air. You rarely indulge in it. Yet you insist you came here just to tell me about Wilbur and Danny.”
“Have I been insisting?”
“Not with conviction.”
“Why do
you
think I came here?” I asked.
“You’ve always mistaken my absolute self-assurance for profound thought,” he said without hesitation, “so when you’re looking for deep insight, you seek an audience with me.”
“You mean all the profound insights you’ve given me over the years were
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