Boss, Your Wife's a Whole Detective novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Breakfast

Lionel Lonergan and his daughter come to breakfast to test the marriage, and Oona plays the furniture on purpose, until Lionel asks to see where they sleep.

At eight fifty-five, Rowan Garvey was in the kitchen burning eggs.

I stood in the doorway in a fresh oatmeal cardigan and watched the smoke climb.

"You cook," I said.

"I make eggs." He scraped the pan. "It's the one dish. My father taught me."

"These are charcoal."

"They're a gesture."

"Of what?"

"That I'm a husband who makes his wife breakfast on Sundays." He tipped the black mess onto a plate and looked at it with a kind of grim respect. "Lionel will believe it. Nobody makes up eggs this bad."

I took the plate from him and put a pat of butter on top, because I could not stand it.

Our fingers touched on the rim. He looked at my hand and then away.

It was the second time in twelve hours. I was keeping count, which was not a good sign.

Lionel Lonergan arrived at nine exactly, with his daughter a half step behind.

He was fifty-eight, bald with a white fringe, ruddy as a man who has eaten well his whole life, in a cashmere coat that never saw rain.

He kissed my cheek.

"Mrs. Garvey. My dear. You must be exhausted."

"A little."

"You were extraordinary last night."

"I was frightened," I said, and let my voice go small. "I don't know what came over me."

I watched his eyes while I said it. Warm, brown, interested.

They did not believe me for a second.

Lorna Lonergan did not bother with warmth.

She was thirty-two, vice president of finance, plum-brown hair in a knot that could have cut glass, ice-blue silk, red heels on Rowan's ancient floor.

"Rowan," she said, kissing the air near him. "Is she going to talk today? Last week I asked her a question and the lamp answered."

"Lorna," said Lionel mildly.

"I'm only saying, Daddy. Furniture is supposed to stay in the room."

I smiled at her.

We sat at the long table in the morning room, with the sleet-light coming grey through the windows.

I put myself at the foot, where I could see all of them.

Lionel took the coffee in his left hand. A left-handed man, two gold anchors at his cuffs, both there, polished.

Lorna did not touch her own phone. She had her father's in her palm, thumbed it twice, and set it by his plate.

She carried it for him.

A daughter who guards the phone wants to be trusted with what's on it.

I didn't think she had been, yet.

"Now," Lionel said, setting a cup down. "To business, because Sundays are made for it."

He took a folded paper out of his coat.

"The trust, as Rowan will remember, requires a marriage in good faith for one full year. As trustee, I'm obliged to review it."

"Review," said Rowan.

"A home visit. A little conversation. Nothing intrusive. Within the month, or today if the board is nervous. And after last night, Rowan, the board is nervous."

"Because of the murder?"

"Because of your wife," said Lionel, with great warmth, and turned to me.

"My dear, where does a girl learn to do what you did?"

Everyone looked at me.

I looked at my plate. The eggs were black, with a pat of butter melting on them.

"Television, Mr. Lonergan," I said. "I watch a great deal of television."

Rowan made a noise into his coffee. He turned it into a cough.

Lorna laughed, short and mean. "Of course she does."

"Well, television is educational," said Lionel, smiling.

His eyes stayed on me a half second longer than his smile did.

"The head of security," he said, "has been with us fifteen years. A good man. I can't understand it."

"Neither can I," I said. "He seemed so loyal."

"You noticed that."

"I noticed his shoes," I said. "I'm sorry. It's a hobby."

Lorna rolled her eyes. Lionel patted my hand.

It was a kind pat. His thumb moved over my knuckles once, just once.

I did not pull away.

Under the table, Rowan's knee pressed mine. It was either an accident or a signal, and I couldn't tell which, and I kept my face the same.

Nobody mentioned the controller's name. Not once in twenty minutes.

Lionel called him "poor fellow."

Lorna called him "the incident."

I filed it with the phone and the left hand.

Then Lionel dabbed his mouth with his napkin and rose.

"I won't keep you," he said. "A lovely breakfast, Rowan. The eggs were very, very brave."

At the door of the morning room he stopped, one hand on the frame, and turned.

"Show me where you sleep, Mrs. Garvey."

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