Chapter 16 #3
I contemplated the whole trout on the plate in front of me.
The fish’s glassy black eye seemed to be staring accusingly, reminding me why I never ordered whole fish.
It served me right for presuming I understood the menu and not asking the waiter.
“Defoe may have lost the book, but he hasn’t lost in life, has he?
He’s wealthy and powerful, which brings a measure of respect to a man. ”
“I don’t respect him.”
“Nor do I, but we don’t admire wealth and power. Anyway, he also has a loving wife at home and a capable assistant in Miss Wheeler. The loss of the book with the tattoo spell won’t change any of that.”
Oscar twirled the long strings of pasta around his fork. “We don’t know that his wife loves him. Would you love that man?”
I shot him a glare, but he didn’t notice, too intent was he on his pasta. “I don’t think I’m the best person to ask.”
He looked up. “Right.”
“Any more than you are, Oscar.”
“Understood. My apologies.”
I wasn’t sure if he understood that I had no interest in men in that way, or whether he was just agreeing with me to keep the peace. It no longer mattered whether he did or not. It mattered more that our friendship remained solid.
With that revelation came another, equally powerful. I put down my knife and fork, dabbed at my mouth with the napkin, and leaned forward. “I want to apologize, Oscar.”
“What for?” he asked, picking up his glass.
“For being moody with you for the last year. I want you to know I’m quite recovered now, and I promise to be a better traveling companion in future.”
“Er, all right.” He went to take a sip of wine only to lower the glass without doing so.
“To be honest, I didn’t know you were in a low mood because of me, presumably for what I said to you about…
your affections for…well you know.” He cleared his throat.
“I thought you were just…working some things out.”
A denial sprang to my lips, but I didn’t speak it. The ground had been covered, and anything further would just cause awkwardness again, and I was determined to move on. “I want to buy some souvenirs before we leave. Do you think we should get something for Matt and India?”
We chatted through dinner and dessert, about matters at home and in Monteoro. When it came time to decide whether we wanted port or brandy, the waiter delivered two glasses to our table.
“A cognac digestivo compliments of Mr. Defoe,” he said.
“How nice,” I said, at the same time Oscar growled, “That turd.”
We both looked to the table where Mr. Defoe and Miss Wheeler still sat, already sipping from small digestivo glasses.
It didn’t surprise me that she drank a man’s drink.
Willie did. Then again, Willie drank moonshine.
She’d found a man in London who made it using the same method her grandmother used.
Willie once invited her friends, including me, to have a glass with her.
It was so harsh I worried the liquid had corroded my insides on its way down.
I sipped the cognac but Oscar did not. He crossed his arms. “If he thinks this is going to make either of us give up the location of the book, he’s sorely mistaken.”
“It’s excellent cognac. If you don’t want yours, I’ll have it.”
He eyed the glass as if it were the root of his frustrations, then picked it up. “I suppose it’s petty not to accept it. It’s not the cognac’s fault that Defoe is a greedy, obnoxious swine.”
“That’s the spirit.” I saluted Mr. Defoe with my glass in thanks and took another sip. It really was a very fine cognac. “Do you think he truly believes Miss Wheeler followed us around today without our knowledge?”
Oscar drummed his fingers on the table beside the glass. “I’m not sure. I think she can be very convincing if she wants to be. The problem is, who is she convincing? Defoe or us?”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me put it another way. Who is she lying to? She told us she lied to Defoe, and he believes she’s spying on us without our knowledge. But is that a lie? Does Defoe know precisely what she’s doing?”
“You’re not making any sense, Oscar.”
“Perhaps he directed her to befriend us,” he went on. “Perhaps their plan is to disarm us into trusting her.”
“Oscar,” I chided. “She is our friend. She wouldn’t betray us.”
“You’re forgetting that she told Defoe the book was here in the Abbazia di San Vittore al Lago after stealing the Laws of Witchcraft book from your room in Edinburgh.”
“She wasn’t our friend then. Not as much as she is now, anyway. Why are you being like this, Oscar? I thought you admired and liked her.”
He picked up the glass of cognac and considered it with a grim set to his mouth. “I do. That’s the problem. I need to be more cautious. I need to think with my head and not my heart. Not following my journalistic instincts has caused problems in the past.”
“My instincts may not be journalistic, but they are telling me we can trust Miss Wheeler completely.” I drained my glass while he merely sipped thoughtfully. “Finish your cognac, Oscar, and we’ll prepare for our nocturnal visit to Pecco. Miss Wheeler and Defoe are leaving.”