Orchids to Die For (Jim Morgan Adventure Series) by Catherine Burr, James Halon

with feminine warmth and an unfolding knowledge that business was at hand.
    Morgan interjected, “Catherine’s a writer. She writes Romance.”
    “Oh. How darling. I hope you’re making more money with it than Mister Morgan is?” And she laughed, in an inappropriate loudness, “I’ve published a few books myself, eleven altogether. Who’s your publisher, dear?”
    Eunice was in rare form, looking at Morgan she added, “I hope you haven’t sent her to your publisher, James?” Without waiting for anyone to respond, “I must sit down, I’m simply famished, Jim,” and she moved to the chair across from Catherine and next to Morgan where she plopped herself down, very un-Eunice like.
    Without Morgan yet settled into his chair, Eunice made a bold summons to a passing waiter.
    Catherine looked at Jim and smiled while Eunice ordered a fruit salad and a black coffee. Her look said, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m having fun,” and she was.
    Eunice told the waiter, loud enough for the lobby staff to hear, to bring her the check for the whole party. He assured her that it would be taken care of, as she wished, and then left to place her salad order with the salad chef. “I’ll at least treat. I can write it off as a business expense.” She then addressed Catherine, “Do you mind if we talk business a few minutes, Cathy?”
    “No, not at all... Oh, did you want me to leave?”
    “Oh no. No. It won’t take long, Cathy. I have a job offer for Mister Morgan, but he doesn’t like working,” and she looked at Jim and qualified her statement, “Right Jimbo?”
    Morgan summoned the waiter, “I’d like to see the wine list again.” The servant nodded to the wine taster and a leather bound list of the world’s finest wines was in Morgan’s hands within seconds. Without opening the cover, he requested, “I’d like a bottle of Mouton Rothschild, 1957.”
    The server blushed, “I believe we have that year, sir. However, I will not be able to assist you – I have not tasted the Rothschild to attest on its conformity.”
    Morgan nodded and the connoisseur exited stage left. The table was instantly refreshed and the old wine bucket removed. Four penguins made themselves highly visible. The cost of dinner with a 20 percent gratuity had escalated beyond simple belief.
     Catherine noticed the atmospheric change in their surroundings. Morgan winked at her as she had picked up on his exuberant wine order. Eunice was blabbering on about ESP books and never caught a clue. A bottle of Mouton Rothschild 1957 upped their evening’s bill by a sassy 1,500.00 American.
    The wine was poured and Eunice pushed away her half-eaten plate of exotic fruits. Her black coffee was refilled, as she had openly declined her try at the Historic vine. Jim and Catherine clinked glasses and sipped the golden gift -- of Bacchus himself. It was a rare pleasure, in so many more ways than one.
    Eunice smiled at Morgan and began, with a calm seriousness, “I’d like you to come back and work for the Institute, Jim.”
    “No, Eunice. I’m setting up a consulting company here. I’m happy ... And I don’t have Russian spies trying to shoot me.”
    Catherine’s eyes became a lot wider and she began listening with a whole new vigor, Russian spies? ...Shooting?
    “Oh Jim, that was a million to one freak occurrence,” she lied, “I have a fun project that you’ll really enjoy.”
    “Yeah, probably to the south pole looking for invisible daisies?”
    Catherine coughed away an open laugh and composed herself with a deep sip of her Rothschild after hearing Morgan’s reply, “Excuse me,” she offered, “I had a tickle in my throat.”
    Eunice sipped her coffee, then pleaded, “Come on Jim, if I know you, you have every bookie in Chicago looking for you for back payments.”
    “I’ve quit gambling,” and he poured himself a fresh glass of wine.
    Catherine wanted to pull out her pen and tablet and take notes. But she resisted the overwhelming