Murder by Candlelight by John Stockmyer

lifted the glass of dark brown
liquid. Smelled ... hazelnuts, orange rind, prunes, figs .... And
... something he didn't like.
    "Don't," Z said as John raised his
glass.
    John looked over at him,
puzzled.
    "Don't like the way it
smells."
    John took a whiff. Shook his head. Set
the glass down near the ashtray on the end table beside his chair.
"You suppose it's gone bad?"
    Z shrugged.
    John laughed again -- this
time without enthusiasm. "Just to be on the safe side, I know somebody
who's got a testing lab. I can find out."
    "Good." Z stood.
    "I'll see you out," John
said.
    So ended the evening. Except that, as
Z was walking down John's immaculate walk, past the perfectly
trimmed bushes and the domesticated trees, he wondered, again, even
in these modern times, if a mob man had the option to
retire.
     
    * * * * *
     
    Chapter 6
     
    Because Susan's bastard of an
insurance company had plans to work her all day Saturday and
halfway through the night, they graciously decided to let her have
a long lunch.
    Trying to make the best of it, Z had a
suggestion about how they could use the time for something more
interesting that eating, Susan vetoing that idea. Said she'd be too
tired to go back to work.
    Instead, they'd made a phone date to
have lunch at Rembrandt's, one of the classier places to eat
North-of-the-river.
    Since it would save time, Susan drove
her own car to the eating establishment, arriving just as Z nosed
the Cavalier into the parking area nearest the front.
    Meeting in the lot, they walked up the
brick path, past carefully manicured flower beds, turning right to
step onto the porch.
    Built out in the country,
only a whisper of traffic on Barry Road serving as a reminder that
this wasn't the nineteenth century, Rembrandt's was a funny kind of
place. Constructed solely as a restaurant, it was designed to look
like an old house converted into a restaurant. Go figure.
    Inside the lobby -- featuring dark
woodwork and spindle-backed chairs -- they waited for the pretty
young woman behind the counter to get off the reservation phone and
seat them.
    To the right, sweeping up, then
cutting back to a bannistered balcony, was the grand stairway, the
second floor used for private parties. On the wall, slanting up the
steps, were oil reproductions of -- what else? -- Rembrandts. "The
Man in the Gold Helmet" was the only one of the fakes Z recognized
by name.
    Finished making the reservation, the
white gowned hostess led them through the arch to the left and into
the place's main dining room, the lady escorting them past other
luncheoneers??, seating Susan and Z in a cozy nook, framed prints
of Rembrandt engravings to either side.
    The table's centerpiece was a vase of
artificial flowers, that decorative touch enough to add a dollar to
the bill. Linen tablecloth -- another buck. The tableware -- Z
looked -- was genuine Roger's silver plate -- an additional 25
cents.
    A jacketed waiter brought the
over-sized, leatherette menu, complete with wine list -- another 50
cents, at least.
    Not that Z didn't like to
eat at Rembrandt's. It was just that he objected to paying for what
he couldn't eat.
(Women, on the other hand, liked classy places. Having as good a
meal, with twice the food at half the price -- but served at Mom's Eats -- turned
women off.)
    Susan ordered a Coke and a
salad. Z asked for iced tea and the pork chop (in a delicate
mustard sauce,) hoping when it said pork chop it meant two pork chops. He knew
better, but ....
    After the waiter's
deferential withdrawal, Susan began to babble, not normally her
style. "... and so I said, if someone files a claim, the letter should first go to
correspondence ..."
    This morning's paper had nothing new
to add about the Kunkle death. Nothing to say about it at all, in
fact. And that was that. The poor little man's memory would,
forever, languish in the "open case" file -- Z thinking that was as
good a fate as that of a rich man buried in the family
vault.
    Susan continued to jabber.
A