The Five Bells and Bladebone by Martha Grimes

Author:Martha Grimes [Grimes, Martha]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: General, Fiction
ISBN: 9781476732930
Google: dCWMaXCK4GwC
Amazon: 0451410386
Barnesnoble: 0451410386
Goodreads: 25177
Publisher: Onyx
Published: 1987-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Seventeen

FIONA CLINGMORE sat at her desk wearing a mask of brown goo that hid everything but her eyes and lips, turning the pages of Harrods magazine with a wetted fingertip.

“Hullo, Fiona, you could have been Al Jolson’s understudy,” said Jury. Fiona jumped, slapped shut the magazine, and glared at Jury for his unexpected and unfortuitous entrance into Racer’s office at New Scotland Yard. The glare was effective, considering the contrast between the dark green irises, the white eyeballs, and the rest of her face. Her hair, recently cut and silvered, was pushed back by a green band, forcing the usual bright blond curls into gold and silver spikes.

Jury sat down and returned the hard stare with a bright smile. “Well, maybe not Jolson. But you’d knock ’em dead in the Piccadilly station on New Year’s Eve.”

After her initial shock, Fiona regained her usual cool, calmly drew a cigarette from a pack on her desk, and leaned back in her secretary’s chair. No mad dash to the Ladies for Fiona to scrub the stuff off.

The cat Cyril, who’d been nosing at the mudpack pot, shot Jury the same sparky glance Fiona had, as if he resented the intrusion into this new and fascinating look into the world of cosmetic technology. Cyril was no slouch, either, when it came to grooming. His coat had the sheen and shimmer of copper from his constant polishing; it was sprigged here and there with threads of white turned silvery by the morning sun. It was a strange copy of Fiona’s own hairdo. Cyril had become Chief Superintendent Racer’s nemesis, ever since someone had found him padding through the halls of New Scotland Yard and had handed him over to Fiona Clingmore. Because Cyril could dodge, parlay, and outwit Racer in the chief’s devising of all sorts of exotic deaths for the cat, Cyril had become more than a mascot; he’d become chic, trendy, a sort of Platonic Idea of Cat.

“And might one ask what happened to your hols?” Fiona exhaled a thin stream of smoke; she was a study in iron control as she pretended not to notice that talking made the mud crack. “Might one ask what you’re doing here?” Not even a finger strayed to the green band working its way up, making the spikes even spikier.

“One might. We had a little trouble in Northants.” Jury nodded toward Racer’s door. “He can’t be at his club this early; it’s not even ten.”

Fiona was holding out her hand, inspecting the nail art. A tiny fake emerald glittered in the sunlight. “Out on a case, he is. Even took Al with him.”

Jury smiled. “Poor Wiggins.”

Fiona tried to look bored — difficult in the circumstances, all the while crossing and recrossing her legs so that Jury could get a good view of the rhinestone insets on the black hose. Since she knew she could hardly seduce Jury with a mudpack, she was bringing whatever other bodily components she could into play: skirt above knees, one arm hooked over the back of her chair nearly strangling the black ebony buttons of her blouse.

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