The Fine Art of Murder by Jessica Fletcher; Donald Bain

Author:Jessica Fletcher; Donald Bain
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Murder, Italy, Women Novelists - Travel, Mystery & Detective, Women Novelists, Travel, Art Thefts - Italy, Murder - Italy, Murder - Illinois - Chicago, General, Mystery Fiction, Women Sleuths, Crime, Art Thefts, Fiction, Radio and Television Novels, Jessica (Fictitious Character), Media Tie-In, Fletcher
ISBN: 9780451234735
Publisher: NAL Hardcover
Published: 2011-10-04T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

It had become overcast and misty by the time Anthony Curso picked me up at the hotel. Happily, he had raised the top on his vintage sports car. Again he was nattily dressed, this time in a silver gray double-breasted suit and a navy blue tie over a pink shirt. I was conscious that I wore the same outfit that he’d seen me in last. There hadn’t been any time for shopping, and my selection of clothing was very limited, as Seth had pointed out. Curso, however, was very gracious.

“You look absolutely beautiful tonight,” he said as he walked me to where he’d parked his Healey.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’ve chosen what I believe will be a restaurant that you’ll particularly enjoy,” he said after we’d settled in the car. “It’s called Everest, forty stories up in the Chicago Stock Exchange building, splendid views of the city, and world-class food.”

“Sounds wonderful,” I said, caught up in his enthusiasm. He tended to talk in superlatives; everything was top-notch or world-class or to die for. I know others who do the same, but their superlatives aren’t always to be trusted. Curso meant every word of his praise, and I had the feeling that his evaluation of things was probably accurate most, if not all, of the time.

We pulled into an underground parking garage beneath the Stock Exchange reserved exclusively for the restaurant, and rode the elevator to the fortieth floor, where we stepped into a dazzling space. Curso was greeted warmly by the maître d’—he was obviously a regular there—and we were escorted to a prime table facing huge windows that afforded splendid views of the city’s glittering light show below.

“What a spectacular view,” I commented.

“The best in the city. Are you up for a martini, Jessica? The bartender is a friend of mine and he’ll make it to my standards.”

“Do you know every bartender in town?” I asked playfully.

“I believe that I do,” he replied with an easy laugh.

“Actually,” I said, “I know something about martini making from old movies, at least the way Nick and Nora Charles made them in The Thin Man series. Nick—William Powell—claimed there was a proper way to shake a martini and it was all in the rhythm. Let me see if I can recall it. He said that when shaking a Manhattan you had to do it in fox-trot time, and a martini had to be shaken in waltz time.”

“You’re right,” Curso said, “but you forget what else he said. To make a proper Bronx cocktail you must shake it in two-step time.”

“A Bronx cocktail?”

“Gin with both dry and sweet vermouth, like a ‘perfect’ Manhattan, only with gin instead of bourbon or rye.”

“I suppose there’s a Brooklyn cocktail, too,” I said.

“Of course. Blended whiskey, some dry vermouth, a dash of maraschino liqueur, as well as a dash of the apéritif Amer Picon.”

“Would you be offended if I preferred a glass of wine?”

“Not at all. The wine selection is superb, including by the glass. May I choose for you?”

“By all means.

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