Murder to Go

by Emma Lathen

  Thatcher looked about the room uncertainly. At some point they would have to collect themselves for the trip into the Trenton garage. Ted Young, now sleeping heavily with his fair hair ruffled into cowlicks, would have to be roused. Tom Robichaux would have to be pried loose from his study of the culinary delights offered by Chicken Tonight. Joan Hedstorm would have to be detached from her beer, for which she was showing a surprising partiality. His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden call for help from the kitchen. Vern Akers cantered off, to return a moment later grinning from ear to ear.

  “A full buffet order for Friday night,” he announced happily. “A hundred people at the Elks. They’ve heard about the arrest, and they say they want to support local business.”

  Dodie broke off her conversation to smile at him. “There, Vern, what did I tell you? We’re going to make it!”

  Robichaux disliked being deserted. “But there isn’t any chicken with orange sauce,” he said plaintively. “I like duck with oranges. Why not chicken?”

  “That’s an idea,” said Hedstrom, his business instincts coming to the fore.

  “Oranges!” Iris Young turned a sybilline gaze on Thatcher. “There may be something there.”

  Thatcher would not commit himself. “Possibly,” he admitted.

  “And Sam Levin,” she continued inexorably. “There are millions of them.”

  Millions of oranges or millions of Sam Levins? Did it make any difference? Thatcher was growing restless under that intense, unblinking stare.

  “Certainly,” he said, turning away.

  Conversations were swirling about the room.

  “Étienne uses thyme,” Robichaux was saying with animation.

  “It’s a funny thing about thyme,” Hedstrom replied, one scholar to another. “You don’t think of it as strong, but a little goes a long way.”

  Iris had retreated further into preoccupation. “Jerusalem . . . Haifa . . . Negev . . . Jaffa . . . Gaza,” she intoned.

  Vern and Dodie were looking to the future.

  “We may have to start thinking about that extra truck again.”

  “And uniforms,” Dodie prompted. “Probably six uniforms.”

  Suddenly Iris’ voice rang out like a clarion. “Frank! I’ve got it!” she cried. “We’ll make it with Jaffa oranges.”

  Frank Hedstrom came to attention immediately. “Yes, Iris?” he said respectfully.

  Iris’ head was thrown back. “We’ll call it . . .” she said softly, as one who sees truth plain, “we’ll call it chicken Sinai!”

  There was a reverent silence.

  It was Robichaux who responded with ready gallantry. He raised his beer can to Iris in a toast.

  “To chicken Sinai!” Admiration was succeeded by awe. “It will make a mint!”