Read Death On a No 8 Hook (A Willows and Parker Mystery) for Free Online

dying on him. He hadn’t fixed the Fairlane because he was thinking about buying a new car.
    Parker drove quickly and well. They arrived at the Point with ten minutes to spare, and parked on the road several hundred feet beyond the restaurant. Orwell noticed that Parker didn’t bother to lock her door when she got out of the car. He almost mentioned the skyrocketing crime rate, but managed to restrain himself. Nothing was going to spoil the evening. He simply wouldn’t allow it to happen.
    Probably because the restaurant was owned by the Parks Board, it had no bar. The Maître d’ greeted them warmly, as if they were old friends. Without delay, he led them through an archway of filigreed plaster and into the arboretum — a huge dome shaped like an upturned wine glass with the stem knocked off.
    The air was warm and humid, heavy with moisture. Each of the thirty or more tables was surrounded by a miniature jungle of exotic tropical plants. The light level was very low. Somewhere off to Orwell’s left a flock of birds muttered peevishly, their voices low and insistent, vaguely troubled. Orwell knew that there really weren’t any birds. Three days earlier, when he’d cased the restaurant, he’d learned that the sound of their voices came from an endless tape.
    In single file, Parker and Orwell followed the Maître d’ along a narrow winding path of crushed white stone. All around them, candles flickered uncertainly; faint yellow sparks of warmth that only seemed to emphasize the depth of the surrounding gloom. It was a weird place. Orwell was just beginning to wonder if he’d rather be somewhere else when they arrived at their table, and all his worries and uncertainties fled in a moment.
    Out on the purpling water a dozen freighters rode hull-down on the ebb tide; a handful of sailboats tacked sluggishly into a fitful wind; and a deepsea tug hauled a huge pyramid of sawdust towards the curving rim of the horizon, into the heart of a fat orange sun.
    “Beautiful view,” said Orwell appreciatively.
    “Thank you,” said the Maître d’.
    “If you like postcard art,” said Parker.
    Orwell frowned. The Maître d’ busied himself arranging the menus and wine list on the cramped little table. He drew back a wicker-chair for Parker, and tried to look down her neckline when she sat down. Almost as an afterthought, he wondered if they might be interested in an apéritif.
    “Champagne,” said Orwell decisively.
    “Domestic, or imported, Sir?”
    “French.”
    “We have Charles Heidsieck, Mumm’s…”
    Orwell cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Just bring us whatever’s most expensive.”
    “Of course.”
    “And make sure it’s real cold. Put lots of ice in the bucket.”
    “Yes, certainly.”
    Parker leaned towards Orwell, resting her elbows on the table. She still wasn’t sure why she was going out with Orwell. To help her forget about her brief fling with Jack Willows, probably. She’d thought Orwell safe enough, because she wasn’t really attracted to him and because she’d heard he was serious about a woman named Judith Lundstrom. Maybe that’s what the champagne was all about. Orwell was planning to drop her, let her down easy. Or was that just wishful thinking? She smiled at him and said, “What’s going on, Eddy?”
    “Nothing,” said Orwell, maybe a little too loudly. “So tell me, how was work?”
    “Let’s not talk shop, okay?”
    “Fine, fine. Whatever you say.” Orwell held up his hands in a gesture of mock submission, displaying palms that were padded and swollen with thick callouses built up during the endless hours he’d spent pumping iron at Gold’s gym.
    “And please don’t try to change the subject, either. Why the champagne?”
    “No reason, really. Just a whim.”
    Parker stared suspiciously at him, but didn’t say anything. Silence was often an interrogator’s most effective tool.
    Orwell smiled nervously. He fiddled with his silverware, wiped his sweating hands