The Horse You Came in On by Martha Grimes Page B

Wiggins didn’t have it up his nose.
    â€œWhat’s that stuff, Wiggins?” Jury, fascinated notwithstanding years of watching Wiggins at his desk with tubes and teacups mixing up concoctions like a chemist, pointed to a plastic bottle filled with something that looked like sludge.
    Apparently it was. “That? Oh, that’s purely topical, sir. I’ve been bothered by a rash on my elbows. This is a mud pack mixed with herbs. It’s quite effective.”
    Only Wiggins would have a rash on his elbows, thought Jury. “Got any Dramamine? I don’t see any.”
    â€œFor travel sickness, you mean? No. The best thing for that is to lean over and grab your heels with the opposite hands. I don’t believe a person should take more medication than absolutely necessary.”
    A number of replies occurred to Jury, but he settled for silence. Wiggins looked painfully serious. “Here’s Plant,” Jury said, raising his arm so that Melrose Plant, threading his way through the swirl of passengers, could see where they were.
    Melrose distributed reading material: “Punch, Private Eye , and a coupleof paperbacks—in case you want to read the newest by Polly Praed.” He held up an incandescent cover. The gold foil glittered.
    â€œExcellent,” said Jury. “It’s been years since I’ve read one of Polly’s books. What’re the others?”
    â€œRemember Heather Quick?”
    â€œJoanna Lewes’s heroine? The one who seemed to be spending a lot of time slogging across the fens? Of course.” Jury fingered this equally garish cover. “What’s yours?”
    â€œA new Onions. In case I have trouble sleeping.”
    Sitting in the lounge waiting to be called to their flight was a woman with a mass of hair, chewing gum and rereading a romance novel. She had her little family with her: a baby in a carry cot and two tots. Melrose had entered into a staring contest with the moon-faced tots, a boy and a girl with eyes hard as pebbles. The girl stuck out her tongue, finally. The mother saw this and gave the girl a swift smack.
    â€œThat lot will be sitting in front of us, just wait.”
    â€œUmm,” muttered Jury, turning a page of the book by Joanna Lewes.
    Nor could he get a response from Wiggins, who was ministering to himself with nose drops. He snuffled and dropped his head forward. Melrose sighed.
    One of the airline personnel was at last calling the first-class passengers to their comfortable seats and champagne, and Jury asked, “Why are you flying coach, anyway? It wouldn’t be out of consideration for your penniless comrades, would it?” Lady Cray had told him to be sure to get first-class seats; Jury had gone out and booked coach.
    â€œNo. I don’t like the film they’re showing in first. I always make my air travel plans according to the films. It’s one of the few chances I get to go to the cinema.”
    Now they were up and moving toward the gate. “What ‘always’?” asked Jury. “You never fly anywhere.”
    â€œI beg your pardon? Who was it went all the way to Venice?”
    â€œWhat’s the film, then?”
    â€œWait and be surprised.” Melrose didn’t know.
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    â€œI’m not sitting in the middle,” said Wiggins.
    â€œI’m not sitting in the middle,” said Melrose.
    â€œStop haggling,” said Jury, as they displayed their boarding passes.
    Wiggins and Plant both turned and smiled at Jury.
    â€œForget it,” said Jury.
    They moved past the barrier.
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    Now they were seated, amid the convivial hum of voices and laughter one hears from passengers eager to embark, who will probably be at one another’s throats before the dinner tray is served. Melrose watched the flight attendant. He felt a little sorry for her, flogging her orange life jacket and pretending the