Scratch the Surface

establishments she considered to be either shamelessly expensive or suspiciously cheap. She also insisted that a restaurant be within a twenty-minute drive of her house and that it offer ample parking, by which she definitely did not mean valet parking, a service that she viewed as a form of legal extortion. She insisted that she loved food and enjoyed almost anything, with such minor exceptions as broccoli, cabbage, hot peppers, curry, fennel, shrimp with the shells left on, and all seeds and nuts, including oils and extracts, especially sesame oil and that detestable almond flavoring that ruined so many potentially delicious chocolate desserts. If pressed, she admitted to disliking bitter flavors. She was none too crazy about rice.
    On Friday evening, Ronald and Felicity compromised by choosing a restaurant in Brookline that neither of them particularly liked, a seafood place with branches throughout the city. Although Newbright Books was open on Friday evenings, Ronald had left an employee in charge, but instead of driving the short distance from the store to his apartment in Lower Allston to change clothes, he arrived wearing the hopelessly stretched out green sweater and faded jeans that he’d had on all day. His hair looked clean and was neatly gathered in its ponytail, but Felicity was irked to notice that he had on Birkenstock sandals over woolen socks. Was it necessary for him to be so annoyingly counterculture?
    “You look nice,” he said as he greeted her in the crowded bar where would-be diners waited for tables. “Silk.”
    “Basic black. Thank you.” Felicity had bought the dress on eBay (“new with tags”) for a fifth of its retail price: NWT Eileen Fisher Silk Dress Sz S.
    Unable to find seats at the bar, they settled for ordering drinks and standing near a wall. In what struck Felicity as a moment of unusual connectedness, Ronald chose the title of her new book as a toast: “Felines in Felony!”
    For a moment, she felt embarrassed and wished that her books had serious, dignified titles like War and Peace or Pride and Prejudice, even though she knew nothing about any war except Caesar’s campaign against the Gauls and could hardly use a title that contained her own last name. Besides, neither title would be suitable for a cat mystery, would it? On impulse, she said, “Cats!”
    Ducking his head as if making an improper inquiry, Ronald asked in a near whisper, “How are they?”
    “Edith is providing valuable assistance in solving the murder of Quinlan Coates,” she announced. Then, in less dramatic fashion, she caught Ronald up on her discoveries. As she was finishing, the bleating of an electronic device in Ronald’s hand signaled that their table was ready.
    When they’d been escorted to a comfortable booth and presented with menus, Ronald turned his attention to making his dinner selections and, to Felicity’s disgust, chose lit-tleneck clams on the half shell and a curried shrimp dish with rice. Raw seafood could transmit hepatitis, and the shrimp probably had shells on their tails. When a waiter appeared, she ordered clam chowder and a lobster casserole, and then, hoping to set a good example for Ronald, asked him about himself and his cats, George and Ira, even though listening to people drone on about their pets was an onerous hazard of her occupation.
    Ronald’s initial response was ideal: “We’re fine.” He went on to say that George and Ira had inspired him to think about writing a mystery. “A cat mystery. I have a lot of notes for it. When I have something to show, I wonder if you’d be willing...”
    “For you? Of course.”
    Without thanking her, he launched into confidences about the ghost writers who had actually written two current blockbusters. After that, he told her everything about an author who was suffering from chronic fatigue syndrome and panic attacks attributable to the capricious behavior of her notoriously volatile editor. Finally, when he said a few words about authors who’d be signing at Newbright, Felicity took the opportunity to encourage him to install an espresso bar and to think creatively about planning events at the store to enable him to compete successfully with chain stores and online booksellers.
    “I’m not Starbucks,” he said, “and I like the store the way it is.”
    “I do, too! Everyone does. Ronald, really, I’m not criticizing. I just worry, that’s all.”
    “Don’t. So, how’s your murder? We got