A Curtain Falls by Stefanie Pintoff Page A

approved. The waiter then poured a glass for me, accompanied by a condescending stare that I returned in kind.
    “May I suggest the roast beef, sir? It comes with a delicious potato lyonnaisse and is very popular.”
    The menu suggestion was directed to me, and no doubt it contained a veiled insult I did not fully recognize.
    “Thank you, but we’re interested in your spring specials tonight, not your regular fare,” Alistair said smoothly. “What does the chef recommend?”
    I listened impatiently as the waiter went on to describe the spring lamb, omitting no intricate step of its preparation. In the end, I deferred to Alistair, who ordered for both of us: an oyster appetizer followed by the lamb. I had a weak constitution for oysters, and I immediately regretted delegating this task.
    “I wasn’t certain that I would hear from you again, Ziele,” Alistair said as he swirled his glass of wine, then sniffed its aroma. “But I’m glad I did. Whether by merit or by chance, you seem to have landed a most interesting case.”
    But I was in no mood to entertain a heart-to-heart discussion with Alistair.
    I glanced at my pocket watch. “What time did your handwriting expert say he would meet us?”
    The waiter resurfaced to refill our glasses of Bordeaux, though neither of us had taken more than two or three sips.
    Alistair was perturbed by my impatience. “Dr. Vollman should be here momentarily.”
    Another server— this one a young boy— brought over the oyster appetizer together with yet another strangely shaped fork. Alistair eagerly sampled one.
    “Why not relax, enjoy the food and wine? These oysters on the half shell are delicious. Go ahead and try one.”
    Aware that our waiter— who was now arranging dishes to accommodate the used shells— was watching me intently, I followed Alistair’s lead. It was not their briny taste that I disliked so much as their slippery, cold texture. I immediately took a large gulp of Bordeaux.
    As if he sensed my lack of appreciation for what others considered a fine delicacy, the waiter frowned in disapproval. I stared back at him until he retreated once again from the table.
    Alistair appeared not to notice my reaction, for he went on to say, “These are Blue Point oysters— a rare delight. The original Blue Points from the Long Island South Bay are now extinct, of course, but these transplanted ones are almost as good. They bring the oysters in from the Chesapeake and let them spend a few months in the Great South Bay before selling them.” He smacked his lips. “A pure delicacy. Not like the ones you’re used to in those all-you-can-eat places on Canal Street.”
    I was sure he was right. But I had never been a fan of the Canal Street oyster bars, either. Though many New Yorkers considered oysters everyday fare, I had never enjoyed them— never liked the look of them. While their presentation here at Sherry’s was more elaborate than I’d ever seen, even so, they didn’t look appetizing.
    “Are you sure your expert can help us? We might have found a better use for this time, talking with some of the players at the Garrick.”
    Admittedly, I was second-guessing Alistair’s plan already. I had never fully appreciated what I thought amounted to blind devotion to new theories. And his track record was certainlynot impressive. He had been positive, based on his research and interviews, that he knew the man responsible for the brutal murder I had investigated last fall. And he had been dead wrong.
    But Alistair’s laugh was relaxed and easy. “The actors and actresses will be available— and likely to talk more freely— right after the show. You did ask for my help, Ziele.” Alistair pointed this out with no small degree of self-satisfaction. “You can’t say you need me and then reject my advice.”
    He refilled his glass with the Bordeaux— for I had apparently offended or frightened our too-helpful waiter— before he continued. “The art of handwriting