Chapter 15 #4
He looked down at his left hand. He was still wearing his wedding band.
He looked at his wife’s photo again. “What do you think, Gretch?” He sighed, then decided to switch it to his right hand.
He was halfway there. Now to remove the evidence left behind from the ring that sat on his finger for seventeen years.
He rubbed but to no avail. It was too obvious, all white and a little puffy.
He pulled the ring from his right hand and placed it back on his left.
Watson’s eyes followed the back-and-forth.
Oliver looked down at the feline. “I shall deal with this another time. If Helen asks, then I shall be honest.” One nervous thought at a time, mate, he thought to himself as he gave himself the once-over before heading out the door.
The Uber was waiting outside his flat. He had a real car but it was a bit small. Plus, he planned to have a drink.
When they pulled in front of Helen’s flat, Oliver got out and rang the buzzer.
He heard the sound of locks clicking and a disembodied voice.
“Come in.” Oliver looked around. Then he spotted the very small microphone and speaker next to the pinhole of the camera.
He chuckled to himself. Even he didn’t have this much security.
When he walked in, Quincy was sitting on the dining table. “Just like my ol’ boy,” he said, and walked over to pet the cat. Another thing they had in common: Their cats ruled the house.
Helen emerged from the bedroom wearing a cranberry vintage Matka-silk-and-linen blend suit, with a peplum jacket and a slim skirt that brushed her calves.
A silk lace cranberry camisole peeked between the lapels, and a matching pair of kitten-heel shoes completed the ensemble.
Her hair was pulled back in a low chignon, and a simple string of pearls and matching earrings framed her face.
She looked stunning. “Good evening, DCI Townsend. You look rather handsome tonight.”
Oliver was speechless, then began to stammer. “Th-th-thank you. And you look absolutely smashing.” He mostly saw her in her white lab coat. Maybe a sweater? But never like this. Yowzah. He nervously handed the modest bouquet of three stems of white hydrangea blooms and lemon leaves.
“These are lovely. Thank you. Where did you find hydrangeas this time of year?”
“There’s a florist near me. I grow them in the summer.” Oliver was hinting at his gardening interests. After his wife passed, he needed a hobby. Something simple. Rewarding. Beautiful.
“I would love to see your garden in full bloom,” she said kindly.
“It’s not the Royal Botanic Garden, but it is rather pretty.”
Helen was taken aback by this other side of Oliver.
She really didn’t know what to think about his private life.
Professionally he was aces, and as a friend he was a good mate.
She paused and thought, a gardener. She had suspected there was a soft side to Oliver, based on his sense of humor and how he treated his colleagues. But a garden. A nice surprise.
“Give me a sec. I’ll put them in water.” After she finished cutting the tips of the stems, she placed them in a vase and set it in the middle of the island cabinet.
“Beautiful.” Then she lifted a cashmere stole from the chair next to Quincy and inspected it for cat hair.
“Good boy. You left Mommy’s clothes alone.
” She turned back to Oliver. “Shall we?”
“We shall.” He stepped aside and opened the door. As they walked out he noticed she hadn’t locked it. Then when they got into the car she pulled out her phone and tapped a few buttons.
“There,” she said, and replaced the phone in her purse.
Oliver chuckled. “Your place is like the Bank of England’s gold vault. You have more security than I do.”
“A girl can’t be too careful.” She smiled coyly.
When they arrived at the restaurant the driver hopped out of the car and scurried over to Helen’s door.
Oliver had paid him a few extra quid in advance for the courtesy.
He held out his hand to assist her. Oliver followed behind.
Helen was going to make a cheeky remark, but she thought against it.
Oliver was seriously going out of his way to please her.
She should be thankful, which, of course she was.
She simply didn’t want to appear flippant.
The humor could come after their first cocktail.
A doorman welcomed them, then directed them to the ma?tre d’.
They were escorted to one of the dark, plush U-shaped booths in the center of the opulent dining room.
The large, domed oval room was adorned with ornate features and textured glass.
Large globe-shaped chandeliers added to the elegance. It was most definitely fancy.
Helen slid into the booth from one side and Oliver from the other.
He wasn’t sure how close they should sit.
They both needed elbow room, and a comfortable distance to converse.
He reminded himself to relax. It had been eons since he had been out to dinner with a woman.
Out to dinner, in general. It was usually a pub with some of his mates from work; nothing remotely close to this style and sophistication.
He rather liked it. It was civilized. He knew he’d think differently after he paid the check.
He knew he was in for at least five hundred quid.
It didn’t matter. Helen was helping to save his friend and family.
Helen’s eyes danced around the spacious restaurant. “It’s quite lovely.”
“Quite,” Oliver agreed. “It’s flawless.”
Helen turned her head and looked directly at Oliver. “You have an appreciation for Edwardian Baroque architecture.”
“Not necessarily Edwardian Baroque per se, but anything done right.”
“Or it’s not worth doing at all.” Helen finished the sentiment.
It was at that moment when Oliver decided he genuinely liked this woman, perhaps as more than a friend.
A server arrived and took their drink order. Oliver ordered The Macallan whiskey, and Helen ordered a vodka gimlet.
“A gimlet? I haven’t had one in years,” Oliver remarked.
“Neither have I. I thought I’d revisit it tonight.”
When the waiter returned with their cocktails, Oliver asked which wine he would recommend with dinner.
Ten unknown courses could be tricky to navigate.
The server suggested three. A white, a red, and a sparkling.
“I’ll leave it to your discretion,” Oliver said, hoping his “discretion” wasn’t too pricey.
“My pleasure, sir.” He bowed slightly, spun on his heel and glided away.
“Menus?” Then it occurred to Oliver that there wouldn’t be menus. “Right. It’s a surprise.”
Helen was close enough to rap him on the thigh with the back of her hand. “Behave.”
“Right,” he said and leaned comfortably against the back of the booth. “I suppose it’s rather nice to let someone else do the thinking for you.”
“And the cooking,” Helen said as the waiter returned with their cocktails.
Oliver lifted his glass. “To a remarkable and lovely woman. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“Thank you. It has been a pleasure working on this case with you.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to many more.” She paused. “Whatever they may be.”
Oliver clinked her glass with his. He could think of a few more things, like a walk in the park. A picnic by the river. Another date.