Nandita To Nandini
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To Murder And CreateChapter 5 free porn video
The Sheik, in downtown San Diego, was nearly empty, as it seemed to be most weeknights. Inexplicably so, as we had found it a good (occasionally excellent) Lebanese restaurant -- something virtually unknown in Toronto. As expected, we arrived before Jim and Karen, and we were well into our drinks, discussing why this was "sheik," rather than "emir" or "pasha," which would be more appropriate, when they arrived.
Hellos and ordering out of the way, we all began to snack on the pickled turnip and bean paste the Sheik generously dispensed.
"How's the investigation?" queried Jim.
"OK, I guess." Somehow I wasn't certain just how much I wanted to divulge about either Gillespie or my thoughts. But the "Eyewitness News" had revealed that the police force had fallen down on the job -- no arrest had been made. And by the time that Hilda had been fed, bathed and nightgowned, and Tracey had arrived to pack her off to bed, I had skimmed about half the book on Burney. It was so poorly written that it had to be a nearly unrevised dissertation.
I asked Karen about her job -- she was working as a substitute in several elementary schools -- and was treated to a fifteen-minute description of some facility on Claremont Mesa. By the time she had finished slandering most of the staff of the San Diego Unified School District, I was ready to respond to Jim.
"Have you ever looked at Gillespie's publications?"
"No, should I have? Anyway, there was nowhere to promote him to. And he'd tenure for twenty years before we moved here. Why would I ever look?"
"I don't know. I was just wondering. Did you ever look at Alice's?"
"No. And I've never looked at the dean's underwear, either. Why?"
"Just wondering." I paused as the waitress brought our food. We all began eating.
"Wondering?" Karen asked, mouth half-full.
"He wrote an article on Aphra Behn, a book each on Eliza Haywood and Fanny Burney, and an article each on Mrs. Trollope and Meredith. And some other stuff, but those are the major items. I've gotten about halfway through his thesis -- the Burney book. I've read none of the other items. I thought I'd waste tomorrow reading through them."
"Sounds just great. I barely remember those names from grad school." For someone in contemporary fiction, the eighteenth century was a luxury: for Jim, four-letter words were the prerequisite, along with a rich vocabulary of gay jargon and a subscription to Rolling Stone. Bibliographical knowledge was limited to the Village Voice, the East Village Other, Screw, and a few other learned journals.
"What about Al?"
"Oh. I was just curious. Her stuff's all over the place. Ford, Kipling, Conrad, Firbank, Haggard. Just scattered around the period. I didn't read any. Maybe when I get a chance."
"Well, that's just like her. Nothing deep. Whatever strikes her."
We all masticated for a while.
"Do you have to read at UCSD?" Jim asked.
"No. Nothing's very esoteric."
"Well, come out to State again. We'll have lunch together and I'll introduce you to a few more people. If you want to." The invitation was tempting. Though the Love Library was packed most of the time, there was little demand for the things I'd be looking at. Gillespie hadn't published anyplace obscure. And I'd be nearer the scene of the crime. (I wasn't sure that that was meaningful, but it seemed to loom large in detective fiction.) And one never knew -- I might get to talk to someone worthwhile.
"OK," I said. "But let's not eat on campus, I don't think I can stand that more than once a week. There's that Chinese place on El Cajon and we can get there in a few minutes."
"Fine," Jim responded. "Meet you at my office at noon or a little past." We went back to our dinners.
"Was there anything interesting in the book?" Karen asked.
"Well, the beginning reads like about a thousand other dissertations on the eighteenth century. But the subject matter intrigues me. At times this afternoon I thought I could see a thread running through all his titles and subjects. But not having known him and having read only a bit of the material puts me at a disadvantage. It's a little like manuscript research or a literary puzzle."
"Come on, don't be coy," said Jim. "What ideas do you have?"
"Well, Tuesday, yesterday, I thought he was just some bastard that everyone hated. But his topics, the stuff he wrote about, make him look more complex. Of course, I'm reading into things [Jim winced at the pun], but look at the possibilities:
"Mrs. Behn wrote a lot and claimed that portions of some plays and some novels were true -- but most people have considered them fiction. But she wrote novels in letters, one of which is called The Nun, and is about a nun who breaks her vows and the hearts of several lovers. Haywood wrote epistolary novels and an anthology of love letters. Burney's Evelina is, of course, an epistolary novel. I got stuck for a while on Mrs. Trollope, but the Bibliography helped me out. Her second novel was The Abbess."
"I don't get it," said Karen.
"Well, as I said, there are many possibilities. But a few are notable. First, Gillespie was brought up as a Catholic, or at least went to a Catholic school, and was really hung up on nuns and priests and idolators and cloisters. Second, he was really very Romantic -- with a big R -- and just acted the bastard to protect himself, so he went for Romantic correspondence and such. I think there's even a chance that he was a Romantic Adventurer in his fantasies, so Mrs. Burney, who married a Frenchman; and Mrs. Behn, who had adventures in Suriname; and Mrs. Trollope with her trips to Belgium and Italy and America all entranced him. But there are other things, too. Mrs. Behn was a loyalist spy in the Netherlands in the 1660s, for example. So far I don't know enough about Mrs. Haywood or George Meredith. But I may by lunchtime -- you're paying, aren't you?" I turned to Jim.
"If you're going to make literary research sound like a thriller, I will," he said. "You're the only person who can make a day in the library sound interesting."
"Just a 'meddling monkey'," I said.
My spouse caught me, throwing in "Or a 'busy ape'."
By this time we were drinking thick Turkish coffee (which I carefully didn't call it in a Lebanese restaurant).
"What was it like? Finding him, I mean," asked Karen.
I sipped my syrupy coffee and put down my cup, fumbling for time. In some way, I didn't want to talk about my find, two days ago.
"It wasn't too bad. After all, I hadn't known him; I didn't know who he was. He might have been a dummy in a store or a wax museum or something. Just a figure in a grey suit sitting in a chair. It was only when I was in the room that I saw the handle of the knife sticking out of his back. I was only in there long enough to realize what was there. Then I called the cops and the security guards came and they called the real police. From there it went pretty much like an old Dick Powell movie or a 'Columbo.'"
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