Cutter (Gail McCarthy Mystery series) by Laura Crum Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Crum
succession of bars and be back around 3:00 A.M., if he didn't find a girl to go home with.
"Don't hurry," I called after him as the door closed. "I'm going out."
And soon, I realized; it was time to get moving if I didn't want to be late. I was meeting Lonny at the Bohemian Cafe at six-thirty and it was already five-forty-five.
Choosing one of my few dresses in honor of the warm fall weather, I pulled on a lightweight, pale blue denim affair, sleeveless and scoop-necked, worn over bare legs and woven leather sandals. The dress was younger in style than I was, or felt, but it flattered my figure and my coloring and seemed appropriate to the lovely soft Indian-summer evening, so unusual for the coast. Besides, I thought, pulling my hair high with a couple of combs, judging by the anticipatory flutters I was feeling, my heart was closer to twenty-one than thirty-one.
Arriving at the Bohemian Cafe five minutes early, I was pleased and amused to see that Lonny was even earlier; his Bronco was in the parking lot.
The Bohemian Cafe is not what it sounds like. The name suggests something intimate, continental and sophisticated; in fact, the large, high-ceilinged room with big old fashioned French-paned windows-actually the dining room of a hotel that dates from stage-stop days-looks simple and countrified. The historic bar reminds me of a movie set for the saloon scene in a Western, and all the furnishings are casually eclectic. Worn Oriental rugs cover the wooden floor in patches, Van Gogh mixes with Charles Russell on the walls, and Victorian lamps argue with saddles hung from the ceiling. It's great.
Lonny was sitting at the bar when I walked in and stood up when he saw me. He wore what I had come to recognize as standard dress clothes for him-pressed jeans, an Oxford-cloth shirt, and clean cowboy boots. As a young man, Lonny's face would no doubt have been called homely; his big nose hooked toward his bony jaw and his rough, craggy features had a suggestion of Abraham Lincoln. At forty-six (we'd gotten to the stage of telling each other our ages), he was growing to look distinguished (I thought), and distinguished or homely, his face was illuminated by a pair of greenish eyes filled with life, humor and intelligence-eyes that seemed to brim over at times with an openhearted zest for living.
Now was one of those times, and I smiled up at him, warmed and charmed as I often was by his enthusiasm. I'm tall for a woman, but Lonny's six-foot-two made me tilt my head back to look him in the eyes. "Hi," I told him.
"Hi." He grinned appreciatively at me. "You look like summer personified. Care for a drink?"
"Sure." I seated myself on a bar stool and looked around with pleasure. The bar at the Bohemian Cafe looked exactly the way a bar was supposed to look---ceiling covered in dollar bills, walls paneled in dark brown wood with trophy heads and the kind of "amusing" signs that bars seem to collect over every square inch of space, bottles ranged in mirrored rows behind the old rosewood bar with its brass rail, and the sort of quiet, restful ambience that more modern bars never seem to have. Late evening sunlight slanted in through a west-facing window and dust motes floated like golden specks in the air. Two other people chatted softly at a table in the corner.
I took a sharp, lime-flavored sip of my vodka gimlet and felt relaxation and contentment wash over me in a rush. Smiling gratefully at Lonny, I said, "Don't you love the cocktail hour?"
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled back. "If it's done right, appreciated, yes."
"Having a drink with somebody, a little conversation, at the point where late afternoon turns into evening-I don't know, it doesn't seem to go into words, but there's something about it."
We both took sips of our drinks in appreciative silence. After a second Lonny asked me, "So what's new?"
I told him about Casey Brooks' barn full of colicked horses, his suspicion of poison, and finished up with
"Don't hurry," I called after him as the door closed. "I'm going out."
And soon, I realized; it was time to get moving if I didn't want to be late. I was meeting Lonny at the Bohemian Cafe at six-thirty and it was already five-forty-five.
Choosing one of my few dresses in honor of the warm fall weather, I pulled on a lightweight, pale blue denim affair, sleeveless and scoop-necked, worn over bare legs and woven leather sandals. The dress was younger in style than I was, or felt, but it flattered my figure and my coloring and seemed appropriate to the lovely soft Indian-summer evening, so unusual for the coast. Besides, I thought, pulling my hair high with a couple of combs, judging by the anticipatory flutters I was feeling, my heart was closer to twenty-one than thirty-one.
Arriving at the Bohemian Cafe five minutes early, I was pleased and amused to see that Lonny was even earlier; his Bronco was in the parking lot.
The Bohemian Cafe is not what it sounds like. The name suggests something intimate, continental and sophisticated; in fact, the large, high-ceilinged room with big old fashioned French-paned windows-actually the dining room of a hotel that dates from stage-stop days-looks simple and countrified. The historic bar reminds me of a movie set for the saloon scene in a Western, and all the furnishings are casually eclectic. Worn Oriental rugs cover the wooden floor in patches, Van Gogh mixes with Charles Russell on the walls, and Victorian lamps argue with saddles hung from the ceiling. It's great.
Lonny was sitting at the bar when I walked in and stood up when he saw me. He wore what I had come to recognize as standard dress clothes for him-pressed jeans, an Oxford-cloth shirt, and clean cowboy boots. As a young man, Lonny's face would no doubt have been called homely; his big nose hooked toward his bony jaw and his rough, craggy features had a suggestion of Abraham Lincoln. At forty-six (we'd gotten to the stage of telling each other our ages), he was growing to look distinguished (I thought), and distinguished or homely, his face was illuminated by a pair of greenish eyes filled with life, humor and intelligence-eyes that seemed to brim over at times with an openhearted zest for living.
Now was one of those times, and I smiled up at him, warmed and charmed as I often was by his enthusiasm. I'm tall for a woman, but Lonny's six-foot-two made me tilt my head back to look him in the eyes. "Hi," I told him.
"Hi." He grinned appreciatively at me. "You look like summer personified. Care for a drink?"
"Sure." I seated myself on a bar stool and looked around with pleasure. The bar at the Bohemian Cafe looked exactly the way a bar was supposed to look---ceiling covered in dollar bills, walls paneled in dark brown wood with trophy heads and the kind of "amusing" signs that bars seem to collect over every square inch of space, bottles ranged in mirrored rows behind the old rosewood bar with its brass rail, and the sort of quiet, restful ambience that more modern bars never seem to have. Late evening sunlight slanted in through a west-facing window and dust motes floated like golden specks in the air. Two other people chatted softly at a table in the corner.
I took a sharp, lime-flavored sip of my vodka gimlet and felt relaxation and contentment wash over me in a rush. Smiling gratefully at Lonny, I said, "Don't you love the cocktail hour?"
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled back. "If it's done right, appreciated, yes."
"Having a drink with somebody, a little conversation, at the point where late afternoon turns into evening-I don't know, it doesn't seem to go into words, but there's something about it."
We both took sips of our drinks in appreciative silence. After a second Lonny asked me, "So what's new?"
I told him about Casey Brooks' barn full of colicked horses, his suspicion of poison, and finished up with
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