Greywalker - Kat Richardson [49]
The voice on the single message was familiar. “Hi, Harper. This is Will Novak. I was thinking . . . well, it’s started raining, so I was wondering if I could cash in my rain check for dinner. If you’re interested, please call me.” He rattled off a phone number.
An impatient suitor. Let’s face it, I had a bad case of lust for him, but dating someone connected, even tangentially, to a case can be complicated. I thought about my options as I set down some food and water for the ferret. Chaos fell on the bowls as if starving.
“What do you think, fuzzy? Should I have dinner with Will, or play it safe?”
Chaos crunched down on a mouthful of ferret kibble while I stroked her shoulders.
“You’re right. Food is always important. I’ll call Will.”
He couldn’t come to the phone. Michael took a message and my home phone number and assured me he’d tell Will to call me. He chuckled a bit as he did so, which made me smile, for some reason.
I sat at my desk, satisfied, and checked my watch. I could finish up my typing and get home in time for a decent shower. I plunged into my notes. Chaos crawled into my lap while I typed and was dopey-faced and limp when I packed her up to leave.
At home, Chaos was content to settle in for a good sleep, exhausted by five hours of exploring and working her wiles on Sarah.
The ringing phone dragged me out of the shower about an hour later. Dripping and towel-wrapped, I sprinted to catch it. My answering machine started reciting into my ear at head-splitting volume as I picked up the receiver.
“I’m here, I’m here!” I yelled into the phone, slapping the OFF button. “Hi.”
“Hi. Um . . . this is Will.”
“Hi, Will.”
“Hi. So, you’re available for dinner this evening?”
“Yup. Are you?”
“Of course I am. We’re just closing up here. Should I pick you up or would you rather meet somewhere?”
“It would be easier to meet. I’m not presentable at the moment. Where and when?”
We agreed on Dan’s Beach House at seven. I’d never been there before. The original house on the bluffs had been a notorious rendezvous for bootleggers in the 1920s. The shale heights afforded a view of the whole Sound—including the coast guard station at Elliot Bay—while the mudflats below created a difficult approach, which still sank or stranded a few careless boats every season.
I grinned at the phone and slithered to my bedroom to dry off and dress. It took me a while to decide what to wear. At the last minute, I decided that I didn’t want the evening to get too serious, so I threw on a good jacket over a cotton sweater and fresh jeans with loafers instead of my usual boots or sneakers. I looked good. Even the bruises weren’t too bad. But, still paranoid, I put my pistol in my purse before I left. It didn’t feel right to wear it on a date, but I didn’t want to go without it.
I had no trouble following Will’s directions and arrived ten minutes early. I spotted his pickup truck in the parking lot. Will was just getting out. He stood beside his truck and waited for me to catch up to him, the misty remains of the rain clinging to his hair and clothes in a jeweled nimbus. I parked a couple of cars away and walked over to him. He caught my hand and we jogged for the doors.
Once inside, he said, “I hope you like fish.”
I didn’t get to answer before a hyperefficient host bustled us to a booth away from the windows. It was a little more intimate than I had expected and a bit darker. My defenses started to rise. I slid around so I was facing into the room while Will was forced to turn his back to the other diners.
I murmured, looking at my menu, “So, what do you recommend?”
“Everything. The cook does a spectacular salmon with ginger and lime, and all the shrimp dishes are wonderful. Did you know that people who eat a lot of shrimp have a higher baseline radioactivity level than people who don’t eat shrimp?” Will added.
Shrimp? What did I care about radioactive shrimp? Then I realized that Will was babbling about crustaceans because he was nervous. That was kind of sweet. Most people who get nervous around