It was night again. Jerome’s time. Seats were still cold and warm. Icy fire.
“Let’s take you somewhere and put you to work, Mr. Author — Mr. Detective. How about Perch, hmm? Wait… that’s currently closed for ceiling repairs. Blue Feather it is!”
(meal joined in progess)
“I can’t eat another single shrimp, Baker Bloch, despite it being on the house. I wonder if our waiter would enjoy taking it home with him. Oh, this must be the chef.”
“I’m so sorry about the paper in your wine,” he began, hands wringing. “I hope you are enjoying the free extra food and drink. Anything else we can get you here at the Blue Feather? Anything at all.”
Baker Blinker looked him over from head to foot, noticing a small red stain on the right pocket of his rather rumpled coat. “We’re fine, Mr. — what’s your name again? I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”
“I’m new,” he replied. “I’m Mr. Owens. Amateur chef by day, professional sleuth by night. Here’s my business card.” He reached into his right pocket, hesitated and perhaps turned slightly red (?), then switched hands to procure the promised paper from the left.
“Cool,” responded Baker Blinker, taking the card. “Interesting first name.”
“It’s Irish. Call me Kenny. I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your dinner. Your waiter Andrew will return in just a moment to check on you. Have a nice remainder of the evening.”
“Thank you,” said Baker Blinker, nodding at him.
“Yes, thanks,” added Baker Bloch.
15 minutes later…
“Did you make the switch?” asked a fidgety Newton back in Collagesity North again.
“Yeah,” responded the declared chef/detective. “Can I go home now?”
A cow suddenly burst into flames across Robin Lane.
(to be continued)