(no subject)
Here in the Africa room at Selway Manor, they were almost out of cellphone range.
A stream of Aztec had spewed from the mobile and the only words Jonathan caught were "back here now", "shambles" and some remark about kebabing a part of his anatomy that he'd much rather keep intact.
Actually, he was pretty sure that everyone in the room had heard that one. At least it had won him a sympathetic smile from the pretty, red-haired doctor, who was carrying out an external examination of the body. He guessed that Adam's nerves about opening in Vegas weren't getting any better.
Maddy tsked and snatched the phone out of his hands. "We're a bit *busy*, Adam," she said loudly, as if talking to a senile aunt. "He'll call you back."
Adam's retort was rude but unintelligible; Maddy's reply was not. She pressed the red end-call button as if she was launching a nuclear strike and slapped the phone back into Jonathan's hand. He wondered if "todger the size of a chipolata" translated into American.
The former Mrs Evangeline Beauchamp ("pronounced Beecham," her husband declared, as if he'd forgive murder but not a breach of manners) lay in the middle of the suite, starfished out in a red pool on the plush wool carpet. The assegai was buried deep in her chest, shockingly vertical. In each hand was a Tarot card. Jonathan wished he could get a closer look, but there were already two people crowded around the corpse: the medical examiner and her friend, the Fed.
The Fed was like a sleek, smart crow, his beady eyes searching the murder scene for anything sharp and shiny. You would think that someone wearing a suit like that would have more of a sense of humour about men-in-black jokes.
Of course, Maddy had been flicking lustful looks at him from the moment he walked into the room. Not that Jonathan cared.
She waltzed up to the lanky, big-nosed, chinless streak of bacon, putting on that disarming smile that usually preceded the outrageous taking of liberties. "Madeleine Magellan," she purred. "I'm a writer. I was staying with Mrs Beauchamp."
The Fed smiled and drew his ID from that expensive jacket. "Mulder. Fox Mulder, FBI"
So at least someone in his family had a sense of humour.
Jonathan moved to Maddy's shoulder. "She's a journalist," he said, and watched Mulder's face close off again. Then he felt petty and small. It wasn't as if Maddy was going to actually pull the Fed, even if she fancied him something rotten. He stretched out a hand, trying to be friendly. "Jonathan Creek."
"He's a third-rate illusionist," said Maddie, who never liked to be outdone.
"I work for the magician Adam Klaus," Jonathan said.