To Perish in Penzance by Jeanne M. Dams Read Free Book Online

the sea and the clouds. Hoping to find Mrs. Crosby or Alexis, I made forays from time to time into the other lounge, the lobby, and the bar. After a listless lunch at which neither woman appeared, I went upstairs to read and fell asleep over my book, waking in midaftemoon in a panic lest I had missed the Crosbys. Alan assured me he had seen nothing of them.
    By dinnertime I was heartily sick of the hotel and wanted a change.
    â€œThere must be a decent restaurant somewhere nearby,” I suggested. “Let’s go out to eat. I’m going to scream if I have to stay indoors one more minute.”
    â€œDear me,” said Alan calmly. “Can’t have that, can we? There’s a nice little tandoori ’round the corner, or there used to be an Italian cafe on the promenade, just down the street from here.”
    â€œItalian,” I decreed. “We’ll be able to see the waves from there, and I like to watch them. Just not from the hotel.”
    â€œI’ll go up and get our coats.”
    â€œAnd umbrellas, in case the rain starts again!” I called after him.
    He returned sans umbrellas.
    â€œMy dear,” he said at my reproachful look, “can’t you see the wind! They’d be torn inside out and snatched from our hands the moment we set foot outside the door.”
    â€œNo, I can’t see the wind, and neither can you. Shades of Christina Rosetti! ‘Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I.’ Et cetera. But I take your point.” It was reinforced the minute we stepped outside. I had to hold on to my hat with both hands, and we were pushed along so briskly I was almost running when we got to the restaurant.
    Inside it was warm, cheerful with red-checked table-cloths, and pleasantly redolent of garlic and herbs, but not very busy. The storm was discouraging patrons, I surmised. We sat at the bay-window table, ordered Chianti and food, and sipped our wine, watching the tempestuous sea just across the street.
    The waves seemed higher than ever. As they battered the seawall, foam leapt up, spraying the promenade just this side of the wall and even, sometimes, the cars parked along the curb. Small groups of children ran along the promenade, deliberately trying to catch the spray. When a wave broke over the wall and spray drenched them, they would duck, scream, and run a little farther to do it again.
    The waitress brought us our dinners. “They look like they’re having a wonderful time,” I commented with a nod out the window.
    She smiled. “I used to do the same thing when I was a kid. I’d get dripping wet and my mum would have a fit, but I had fun. Enjoy your meal.”
    â€œNot such fun for the owners of the cars,” Alan remarked as he started on his veal parmigiana. “Salt water’s death to the coachwork, not to mention what it’ll do if it finds its way under the bonnet.” He gazed out the window, shaking his head.
    â€œDon’t tell me about salt damage to cars,” I said. “They use it on the roads back home when it snows, and—”
    â€œDorothy!”
    There was a very odd note in Alan’s voice. Urgency, even fear. I caught my breath and reached my hand out to his. “What? What’s the matter?”
    â€œNo, it’s nothing,” he said. “That girl—I thought—but I’m only seeing things.”
    â€œWhat girl, where?”
    He pointed. “Just passing the window now—no, she’s out of sight.”
    â€œFor you, not for me.” I craned my neck, looking over Alan’s shoulder at the figure just disappearing around the corner. All I could really see was a pair of dark, high-heeled boots, a short, dark skirt, and a swirl of blond hair tossing madly in the wind. “What about her? You sounded so—I don’t know. I thought something was wrong with you.”
    â€œSorry, love. It’s just—well, I’m seeing things, as I said.