Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

looked pleased. Coming up behind her, he wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled her neck.
    Polly wriggled and deflected his move by closing off access to her neck with a tip of her head. Under the most ordinary circumstances she didn’t like her neck nuzzled, but tonight it was especially sensitive. “Stop,” she cooed, “dinner’s almost ready, and you’re not getting dessert now.”
    “What can I do to help?” he asked as he peered over her shoulder into the pan of creamy liquid with orange chunks of something in it. A pot of water was boiling away on another burner and he could see pasta cooking in it.
    “Pick out a bottle of wine and open it, and leave me alone so I can finish dinner.”
    The wine rack was in the dining room, and he noticed that the table wasn’t set. He picked out a nice Malbec and called out, “Do you want me to set the table?”
    “No. It’s all set. We’re eating outside, Could you light the patio heater and the candles.”
    Wine open, matches in hand, he went outside. The temperature was cool, but as soon as he lit the patio heater it was perfect. Whatever breeze had been blowing earlier had stopped, the evening birds were singing their final songs of the day, and the crickets were beginning to chirp. The shadows were growing longer and the sky was beginning to change from the bright blue of the day into shades of pink and purple. Soon it would be dark, and with the clear sky, the stars would be magnificent. All he could do was smile and take it all in.
    Polly had thought of everything. She had set the table with their best china, using placemats they had bought from a local weaver. The center of the table held a vase of fresh flowers surrounded by an assortment of candles, each on its own mirror. He poured a little wine into each wine glass so that it would have a few minutes to breathe. Then he began lighting the candles. As he did so, he wondered what the special occasion was.
    When Malcom had lit the last candle, he heard the door open. Polly came out carrying two salads. “Would you get the basket of bread?” she asked as she placed one on each placemat.
    Mal walked into the kitchen and his stomach growled loudly. The smells coming from the stovetop demanded investigation. He lifted the lid from the skillet that she had been stirring earlier. But before he could do anything more than inhale, he heard her clear her throat behind him.
    “Sorry,” he said. “I was just checking it out. It smells amazing. What is it?”
    “A surprise. Bring the bread so we can eat.”
    Polly always made interesting salads, and this one was no exception. As he finished the last bite, Malcom said, “My God, Polly, that was incredible. Where did you get that idea for a salad?”
    “Nowhere in particular. I just kind of invented it. I’ll have to remember it.”
    They left their salad plates for a moment; it was such a beautiful evening that dinner could wait. But as Malcom sipped his wine, Polly looked at him and asked, “Do you think that there’s anything to worry about with Alfred?”
    Mal looked at her with concern. The visit had obviously bothered her a lot.
    “I don’t think so. He may be a bit eccentric, but no, I don’t think so.”
    “I’m not so sure. There was something about the way he asked questions, and when he wanted to buy the quilt … Oh, I don’t know. He just made me uneasy.”
    “Pol. Really, I don’t think there is anything to worry about.”
    She took another sip of wine, stood up, and picked up her salad plate. As she reached for his, he pushed back from the table intending to help. But before he could stand, she came around and touched his shoulder. “Stay. I’ll take care of these. I’ll be right back with dinner.”
    Malcom couldn’t help but notice the softness of her touch, and the seductive tone of her voice. All the right messages were being conveyed, but even as she hinted at as-yet-unspoken delights, he sensed there was something else. He sat back, took a sip of wine, and looked out over the backyard, past the garden, and to the now dark woods. The candles flickered, and his thoughts went to Polly and all the effort she had put into this meal, for no apparent reason.
    Then the screech of an owl, telling of his own evening meal, shifted his thoughts. Pol was worried about Alfred, and now, so was he. Why had he come by today? What did he want, besides the quilt, and why that quilt? Malcom remembered some of the uneasiness that he had felt