The Sirena Quest by Michael A. Kahn Read Free Book Online

for words. To be eighteen again, shopping at Stix, Baer & Fuller with her mother for that lovely white formal she would wear to the Veiled Prophet Ball.
    Today was almost as splendid: planning her parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary. Oh, what a simply marvelous party it would be. Top notch. Everything perfect, if only she could firm up the details with these two dim-witted caterers.
    She gave them a stern look. “Good veal is the secret to Swedish meatballs,” she repeated. “You do appreciate that, do you not?”
    Ray turned to Lou, his eyes narrowing. The vein throbbing over his right temple eliminated any doubt that Ray’s patience was about to run out. Lou stared at him with a barely perceptible but clearly translatable frown that said, Cool it .
    After a moment, Ray looked down and shook his head.
    Lou turned to her with a comforting smile. “I can personally assure you, ma’am, that we use only prime cuts of veal in our meatballs. That’s what makes ours so special.”
    She wagged a crooked index finger at him. “And only lean pork, young man. I will not tolerate fatty meatballs.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “I absolutely loathe fatty meatballs.”
    Lou glanced at Ray. “We trim all the fat, don’t we, Mr. Gorman?”
    Ray was still staring at the floor.
    â€œDon’t we, Mr. Gorman ?” Lou repeated.
    â€œYeah, yeah, yeah. Trim the Fat. That’s our slogan.”
    Abigail leaned back against her pillows and nodded in satisfaction. With her unkempt white hair, gnarled fingers, and fierce brown eyes, she reminded Lou of a fairy-tale crone.
    â€œNow that we finally have that item settled, gentlemen, shall we go over the canapés again?”
    â€œLord deliver me,” Ray mumbled.
    Brandi had dropped them off at the nursing home with a promise to pick them up in an hour. Lou checked his watch. Just twenty minutes to go. Thank God.
    Although he didn’t know the proper medical terminology, Abigail Washburn was batty. For the past forty minutes they’d been going over a menu for an imaginary anniversary party, apparently for the poor woman’s parents. When their initial efforts to convince her that they weren’t caterers sent her into a rage, Lou decided to play along, partly out of pity, but mostly in the hope that she might return to the present long enough for them to raise the subject of Sirena. After the first twenty minutes, Lou tried to nudge her in the right direction by asking whether her brother Henry would be attending the party. Abigail had sighed, shaken her head, and explained that his teaching commitments at Barrett College prevented it. When Lou tried to follow up, she refused to discuss the subject any further.
    â€œOh, yes,” she continued, raising her index finger in the air, “you must make your oyster Roquefort canapés. Father absolutely adores them. I want three dozen. No, make that four. Yes, four dozen of the little darlings would be perfect, don’t you agree?”
    â€œYep.” Ray checked his watch. “We’ll make sure you got oysters out the ol’ wazoo.”
    â€œOh, how could I forget?” She clasped her hands over the front of her faded robe. “Shrimp vegetable kebabs. With tomato wedges and bacon. They are simply divine.”
    And so it went. Like some bad Monty Python routine, the appetizer list grew to include cocktail frankfurters with barbecue sauce, deviled ham pastry snails, asparagus cheese fingers, stuffed mushrooms, salmon mousse, egg salad triangles, and so on. By the time Abigail Washburn reached the desserts, Lou and Ray were both slumped forward in their chairs.
    â€œMother adores meringue. But you must be careful to beat the eggs until…until…”
    The pause stretched into silence.
    Lou looked up.
    At first he thought she’d had a stroke. The old woman was sitting rigid in bed, eyes wide, mouth open, staring beyond