Festival of Fear by Masterton Graham

Author:Masterton, Graham [Masterton, Graham]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Publisher: Severn House Publishers Ltd
Published: 2012-01-09T05:00:00+00:00

When the detectives had left, Jack locked the restaurant door and stood with his back against it, with tears streaming down his cheeks, as warm and sticky as if he had poked his eyes out. ‘Jacqueline,’ he moaned. ‘Jacqueline, why you? Why you, of all people? Why you?’

He knelt down on the waxed oak floor, doubled-up with the physical pain of losing her, and sobbed between gritted teeth. ‘Why you, Jacqueline? Why you? You’re so beautiful, why you?’

He cried for almost ten minutes and then he couldn’t cry any more. He stood up, wiped his eyes on one of the table napkins, and blew his nose. He looked around at all the empty tables. He doubted if he would ever be able to open again. Keller’s Far-Flung Food would become a memory, just like Jacqueline.

God, he thought. Every morning you wake up, and you climb out of bed, but you never know when life is going to punch you straight in the face.

He went back into the kitchen, turned off all the hobs and ovens, and hung up his apron. There were half a dozen Inuit moccasins lying on the chopping board, ready for unstitching and marinating; and yew branches for yew branch soup. He picked up a fresh, furry moose antler. That was supposed to be today’s special. He put it down again, his throat so tight that he could hardly breathe.

He was almost ready to leave when the back door was flung open, and Punipuni Puu-suke appeared, in his black Richard Nixon T-shirt and his flappy white linen pants. Jack didn’t know exactly how old Punipuni was, but his crew-cut hair looked like one of those wire brushes you use for getting rust off the fenders of 1963 pick-up trucks, and his eyes were so pouchy that Jack could never tell if they were open or not. All the same, he was one of the most experienced bone chefs in San Francisco, as well as being an acknowledged Oriental philosopher. He had written a slim, papery book called Do Not Ask A Fish The Way Across the Desert.

Punipuni took off his red leather shoulder bag and then he looked around the kitchen. ‘Mr German-cellar?’ (He always believed that people should acknowledge the ethnic origins of their names, but translate them into English so that others could share their meaning.) ‘Mr German-cellar, is something wrong?’

‘I’m sorry, Pu, I didn’t have time to call you. I’m not opening today. In fact I think I’m closing for good. Jacqueline was mirrorized.’

Punipuni came across the kitchen and took hold of his hands. ‘Mr German-cellar, my heart is inside your chest. When did this tragedy occur?’

‘This morning. Just now. The police were here. I have to go home and see what I can do.’

‘She was so wonderful, Mr German-cellar. I don’t know what I can say to console you.’

Jack shook his head. ‘There’s nothing. Not yet. You can go home if you like.’

‘Maybe I come along too. Sometimes a shoulder to weep on is better than money discovered in a sycamore tree.

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