"Masterton, Graham - The Djinn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Masterton Graham)

"Max was."

I sniffed. "I know, Marjorie, but I'm not. And I don't really think it's the wisdom of the East if you commit arson on your own property for the sake of some ancient pot that's probably full of preserved figs."

At that moment, Anna came walking across the unkempt grass, her veil fluttering in the mild sea breeze.

"Who's that?" asked Marjorie. "Is she a friend of yours?"

"A newly acquired friend," I said. "Her name's Anna. I met her just now."

Marjorie seemed to be right on the verge of asking me another question, but Anna came up and stood a few feet away, and she changed her mind.

"I don't like to rush you," she said, "but it's past one o'clock, and I'm getting awfully hungry."

"Is that the time?" said Marjorie. "I didn't realize."

"I promised to take Anna to lunch at the Plymouth," I explained. "I want her to experience their broiled lobster tails."

"Yes, they're very good," Marjorie said. "It's been a long time since I went to the Plymouth."

"Come with us," said Anna. "I'm sure Harry would like to treat his godmother as well as a perfect stranger like me;"

I glanced up. Anna was extremely attractive, but right then I could have kicked her in the shins. The last thing that was going to enhance my seductive style was the fretful presence of Marjorie Greaves, babbling on about jars and portraits and food labels. My fantasy of spending a warm and cozy lunchtime at the Plymouth, followed by a brief drive to the beach for a little tussling in the sand, began to evaporate fast. I looked across at her lynx-eyed, red-lipped, dark-haired, delicious face and pulled the sourest smile I could. All she did, the provocative bitch, was pull an even sourer smile back.

Most of the funeral guests were leaving as we got back to the house, and we waited while Marjorie said her farewells and accepted their condolences. The sun was hotter than ever, and inside my black suit I was slowly melting away. By the time we were ready to go, I felt five pounds thinner.

The Plymouth was one of those quiet, elegant restaurants in a small, well-manicured Cape Cod community. There was a colonial church just across the street, with a gilded clock, and a neat village green which looked as if it had been trimmed with nail scissors. Under the spreading chestnut tree nestled the white-painted Plymouth Restaurant, where we sat at a dark oak table behind eighteenth-century windows and enjoyed the attentions of a fussbudget old lady with a country apron and a talent for dropping crackers in your lap.

Anna and I both ordered the lobster tails, and then I strolled up the street to buy a bottle of Chablis to drink along with them. It was a roasting hot afternoon by then. A black-and-white spotted dog lay under a nearby tree with its tongue lolling out, and not far away, the local cop rested in his car, his hat tilted forward and his eyes closed.

When I got back to the restaurant and sat down, I found that Anna and Marjorie were talking about Max's ridiculous jar. Marjorie was just explaining about the jar being sealed in the turret, and Anna was listening with rapt attention.

"Oh, God," I groaned. "Are we back to that again? Honestly, Marjorie, I think you'd be better off if you threw the damned thing away and forgot all about it."

Anna looked offended. "I think it's interesting," she said. "Perhaps it's a magic jar."

I uncorked the Chablis and filled our glasses. "Sure, and this is magic aphrodisiac."

Anna sipped her wine. "It doesn't taste like it to me. What did it cost? Seventy-five cents a bottle?"

I looked at the label. "I'll have you know this is genuine 105 percent French Chablis from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Drink twenty bottles of this and you won't know what hit you."

Our food arrived. The lobster tails were as juicy and buttery as they always were, and the lettuce was crisp and fresh. Marjorie stuck to a cottage cheese salad, but then I guess it's not every day you bury your husband, cantankerous old bastard or not. We ate in silence for a while.

"You know something," said Anna. "I think we ought to investigate this jar."

"That's what I said," I told her. "I'm sure it's a perfectly natural phenomenon. There's an explanation for almost everything that seems like it's occult."

"I don't agree with that," retorted Anna. I think it's magic. But I do think we ought to have a look."