Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 05 - Mother Hubbard Has a Corpse in the Cupboard Read Online Free PDF Page A

is located between St. Mary and Beaufort, right off of Highway 21, almost exactly half way between my apartment and the fairgrounds. I spotted the British racing green Mini Cooper parked beneath the Spanish moss draping off the live oak trees when I pulled into Andre’s parking lot, but I didn’t expect it to be Patel’s car. He was watching for me because he was out of the Mini Cooper and standing by my Mustang by the time I parked. He held the door for me, and I liked that. Other women can have all the liberation they want. I expect equal pay for equal work, but I love having men hold doors for me, and there’s no question that if I’m dining somewhere like Andre’s, I won’t ever go Dutch treat.
    “You look beautiful.” His dark eyes sparkled. I don’t know what I’d expected. Surely not the jeans he’d worn earlier that day and not traditional Indian garb. He wore a brown suit with a cream shirt, open at the neck. Maybe it was the moonlight, but I found him even more handsome than he’d been at the beer garden.  
    “Should I put on a tie? I have one in the car,” he said as he took my hand, not my elbow, and we walked up to the portico covered by a forest green canvas awning discreetly labeled “Andre’s” in white cursive over the door of the stucco building.
    “Wait and see if it’s a requirement,” I answered.
    A doorman welcomed us in with separate polite bows to each of us. Patel didn’t go into any details about reservations. He simply said, “J. T. Patel.” We were then met by the maître d’ who led us through a long hall with several closed doors on each side. Massive gold-framed impressionistic oil paintings hung on the pale peach walls. Slate floors edged around plush area rugs in shades of green and peach. From my previous visit, I expected a private dining room, and I wasn’t disappointed.
    Smaller oil paintings adorned the dark green silk-covered walls, and a round table covered with a floor-length peach linen cloth centered the area. Patel held one of the two ornate French chairs with peach and green needlepoint cushions for me. As I was seated, I noticed that the peach roses on the table were fresh, not silk, and the vase and candleholders appeared to be lead crystal.  
    When we were seated, the maître d’ touched a switch by the door, and the tiny recessed spotlights shining on the paintings dimmed so that most of the remaining brightness came from the candles on the table.
    No sooner had the maître d’ bowed out of the room than a server entered and presented a wine list to Patel. He looked at me. “Do you prefer a specific wine?” he asked.
    “Actually, I don’t want wine tonight,” I said.  
    Patel smiled. “I do not care for wine either,” he said. “I find this lady’s beauty to be intoxicating enough for me.”
    Oh, my heavens! I’d done it again. Here I was with another smooth-talker. Put ten men in a line-up, and I’ll be attracted to the one who turns out to be a womanizer, and usually they’re the smooth-talkers. Know why? Because they’ve had so much practice.
    On my previous evening at Andre’s, Donald had ordered everything, including escargots for the appetizer, without asking me for any of my preferences. I don’t know why a woman who chows down on catfish and crawdads would feel queasy thinking about eating snails or slugs, but I had. This time was different.
    “What would you like for an hors d’oeuvre?” Patel handed the starter menu to me. I’d had Burgundy Mushrooms before, and they were good, so I suggested those. He requested them and added an order of Basil Calamari. I sipped mineral water from a glass that was definitely fine crystal while we waited. The server brought the appetizers in small oval dishes with two delicate china plates. Though we each had a full setting of flatware he gave us each a sterling silver appetizer fork.
    Donald had fed me appetizers off his plate. Patel graciously served the mushrooms and calamari from