Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) Read Online Free
Author: David Fulmer
blushed and smiled slightly.
"What was it?"
"Just something I heard somewhere. I couldn't remember the words."
Her smile lingered for a moment, then dwindled by slow degrees into something wan and distant. She closed the book and asked him if he was hungry.
By the time he returned from the privy and had finished in the bathroom, she had fresh coffee brewing. He sat down and she put a plate in front of him, with a buttermilk biscuit split open and topped with two eggs, sunny-side up. She took the opposite chair and picked up some sewing.
He broke the first yolk, musing for a moment on how normal it would appear, the two of them sitting there, him quietly enjoying his breakfast while she mended socks like a dutiful wife. It had been like that for some months, and he had just begun to wonder how long it was going to go on when he noticed that there was something amiss with her.
At first it was nothing much: odd looks, curious slips of the tongue, sudden laughter over nothing. One day she would be the woman he knew: quiet, quick to smile, busy with her days, content with her life with him, always eager to frolic on the bed. The next day she would be acting like another person, all agitated about something that he couldn't see or name. She got impatient over small things, her dark eyes flashing annoyance. She had always been on the quiet side, but sometimes she would go for the better part of a day without saying more than a few words. He studied her more closely and saw tensions hiding beneath her placid facade. When he asked her if there was something wrong, she would first look startled, then frown absently, as if the question irritated her, and so he didn't ask anymore.
Valentin's successes as a detective had come less from his powers of deduction than from his ability to see behind masks and divine what drove people this way or that. It seemed he had a sixth sense that allowed him to untangle the sordid webs that miscreants wove. Such was the reputation he had built; though it was true that there hadn't been anything to test it in a good while.
Justine had him bewildered. Though she had long since re-covered from her injuries, she still complained of headaches, a leftover effect from a blow to her head. Her doctor prescribed paregoric, and Valentin noticed that as the months passed, she was employing the medication more and more. That wasn't like her, either. She had never been one to drink too much whiskey or smoke hop, like so many of the sporting girls; and yet she seemed to have acquired a yen for her prescription and filled it religiously every Saturday on her way home from Mass.
He had paid a quiet visit to her doctor, the same young Creole who had treated her at the hospital. He described her symptoms and asked if there might be any lingering effects from her injury. The doctor had at first looked dubious, as if he thought Valentin was exaggerating, then listened with growing impatience to the description of her shifting moods and odd behaviors.
With a brusque shrug he said, "These matters of the mind are still a mystery. Most likely, it's something that will pass in time. Let's stay with the paregoric for her pain and we'll see how she progresses." Then he excused himself and hurried off.
Nothing had passed in time. She was still behaving in such strange—
"How were things at the Café?" she inquired, breaking into his thoughts. She was often eager for news from the circus that was Storyville.
"The usual," he said. "Couple fellows decided to have a knife fight right in the middle of the floor, but that was all."
She nodded toward the front room where Beansoup was sawing logs. "Where did you collect him?"
"He was hanging around Hilma Burt's."
She cocked a curious eyebrow. "What were you doing there?" She knew he never went into a sporting house unless he was on business.
"Morton wanted to see me about something."
"About what?"
He didn't really want to go into it, so he gave her a short version of
"What was it?"
"Just something I heard somewhere. I couldn't remember the words."
Her smile lingered for a moment, then dwindled by slow degrees into something wan and distant. She closed the book and asked him if he was hungry.
By the time he returned from the privy and had finished in the bathroom, she had fresh coffee brewing. He sat down and she put a plate in front of him, with a buttermilk biscuit split open and topped with two eggs, sunny-side up. She took the opposite chair and picked up some sewing.
He broke the first yolk, musing for a moment on how normal it would appear, the two of them sitting there, him quietly enjoying his breakfast while she mended socks like a dutiful wife. It had been like that for some months, and he had just begun to wonder how long it was going to go on when he noticed that there was something amiss with her.
At first it was nothing much: odd looks, curious slips of the tongue, sudden laughter over nothing. One day she would be the woman he knew: quiet, quick to smile, busy with her days, content with her life with him, always eager to frolic on the bed. The next day she would be acting like another person, all agitated about something that he couldn't see or name. She got impatient over small things, her dark eyes flashing annoyance. She had always been on the quiet side, but sometimes she would go for the better part of a day without saying more than a few words. He studied her more closely and saw tensions hiding beneath her placid facade. When he asked her if there was something wrong, she would first look startled, then frown absently, as if the question irritated her, and so he didn't ask anymore.
Valentin's successes as a detective had come less from his powers of deduction than from his ability to see behind masks and divine what drove people this way or that. It seemed he had a sixth sense that allowed him to untangle the sordid webs that miscreants wove. Such was the reputation he had built; though it was true that there hadn't been anything to test it in a good while.
Justine had him bewildered. Though she had long since re-covered from her injuries, she still complained of headaches, a leftover effect from a blow to her head. Her doctor prescribed paregoric, and Valentin noticed that as the months passed, she was employing the medication more and more. That wasn't like her, either. She had never been one to drink too much whiskey or smoke hop, like so many of the sporting girls; and yet she seemed to have acquired a yen for her prescription and filled it religiously every Saturday on her way home from Mass.
He had paid a quiet visit to her doctor, the same young Creole who had treated her at the hospital. He described her symptoms and asked if there might be any lingering effects from her injury. The doctor had at first looked dubious, as if he thought Valentin was exaggerating, then listened with growing impatience to the description of her shifting moods and odd behaviors.
With a brusque shrug he said, "These matters of the mind are still a mystery. Most likely, it's something that will pass in time. Let's stay with the paregoric for her pain and we'll see how she progresses." Then he excused himself and hurried off.
Nothing had passed in time. She was still behaving in such strange—
"How were things at the Café?" she inquired, breaking into his thoughts. She was often eager for news from the circus that was Storyville.
"The usual," he said. "Couple fellows decided to have a knife fight right in the middle of the floor, but that was all."
She nodded toward the front room where Beansoup was sawing logs. "Where did you collect him?"
"He was hanging around Hilma Burt's."
She cocked a curious eyebrow. "What were you doing there?" She knew he never went into a sporting house unless he was on business.
"Morton wanted to see me about something."
"About what?"
He didn't really want to go into it, so he gave her a short version of
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