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

Wine trickled down his chin. He dabbed at himself with a napkin. A sliver of meat caught his attention. He winkled it free with his thumbnail, chewed, drank some more wine.
    Parker smiled across the table at him. “You still hungry, Eddy?”
    Orwell shook his head. “No, not really.” Just nervous as hell, that’s all.
    “Want some dessert?”
    “I’m too full. How about you?”
    “Coffee would be nice.”
    “If we can find our waiter,” said Orwell. “I think he went off shift about an hour ago. Next time we come here, let’s remember to pack a flare gun.” He picked up the bottle and tipped the last inch of wine into Parker’s glass.
    “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
    “I thought it was the other way around,” said Orwell. The look on Parker’s face encouraged him to add hastily: “Hey, just kidding.” He raised his glass, and saw that it was empty, and put it back down on the table in front of him with a heavy thud.
    Parker studied her watch. “It’s been a nice evening, Eddy. But I’ve had a long day, and tomorrow isn’t going to be any easier.”
    “I thought you had tomorrow off,” said Orwell.
    “So did I.”
    “Listen, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.” Both Parker and Orwell had spoken at exactly the same moment, their voices in perfect synchronization, as if they’d been rehearsing for months. They stared warily at each other. Parker recovered first.
    “Go ahead, Eddy.”
    “Ladies first.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    Orwell had been waiting all through the meal for the right moment to make his move. But the right moment had never seemed to come. And now, suddenly, it had been forced upon him. Covertly, he slipped his hands inside the pocket of his suit jacket. The small sterling silver box felt smooth and cold. He flipped open the lid and ran the ball of his thumb over the faceted surface of the diamond. Half a carat. Eighteen hundred and fifty bucks. What with his health club dues and a few other odds and ends, he’d pushed his Amex card right to the limit.
    Parker asked him if something was wrong, and he had said no. But that was a lie. Something was terribly wrong. He’d planned to ask her to marry him as soon as the champagne was poured, but the fucking waiter had kept hanging around. Next thing he knew the food was already on the table and his mouth was too full to talk. Why he’d eaten so much, he couldn’t say, especially since he’d hardly tasted a thing. And now, suddenly, the meal was over. They were about to leave and he had blown it, had failed to summon up the courage to ask for the hand of his own true love.
    Frustrated, he snapped shut the hinged lid of the little box on the delicate web of flesh between his thumb and first finger, and gave a little yelp of surprise and pain.
    “What’s wrong?” said Parker.
    The waiter hurried up, looking concerned. Orwell glared at both of them, and flung his credit card down on the table like a gauntlet.
    Outside, the air was fresh and sweet after the warm, humid, cloying atmosphere of the restaurant. There was a cool breeze coming in from the ocean, across the mouth of the harbour, and they could hear the leaves rustling in the trees behind them, a gentle whispering above the wail of a distant siren. High above them, the night sky was crowded with real stars — the genuine article, and not stars of wax. Orwell filled his lungs, exhaled slowly, He and Parker walked slowly across an open expanse of lawn towards her car.
    “Lots of ships out there tonight,” said Orwell, taking in the expanse of restless black water and the scattered ovals of light with a negligent wave of his hand.
    “Freighters,” said Parker.
    After a moment Orwell said, “Let’s count them.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know. Just for the hell of it.” Orwell was experiencing sudden bouts of double vision, but he was nobody’s fool. Half a bottle of champagne and the better part of two bottles of white wine had not entirely