Chapter 17 -- Plesch

He put the yellow paperback face down, open to his place, on the restaurant table.
He could barely see well enough to read, anyhow, through the head wrappings.

His teeth still hurt. Perhaps he'd been wrong to order the club sandwich, but it was his first
since getting off of the liquid diet.
The restaurant had not changed...since 'The Accident'. Thankfully.

That is, it had not improved nor gained any clamorous clientele. He preferred the quiet,
dining alone, (especially now it was more difficult), even writing here. Or at least
ruminating about his latest novel.

He still knew all the staff. The dust-ridden artificial fronds reminded him of the Crimble
woman, still missing. But, that could be a good thing. Criminal ambiance.
A union of neglect in not removing the 'plant', and opportunism (he had encouraged)
in trying to keep the local story alive.


'Speaking' of local stories, the paperback...he did not like to criticize his competition,
but he was certain now that Ima had skipped a step. She should have had her killer
wander through the town, in a different chapter, and then reach the Bridge.

Instead, there was an unfortunate abruptness in his fleeing the courtyard, then
so shortly appearing, gazing down at the river. 'Would he jump...?', the triteness almost
shouted.

Feeling he already knew the answer, Plesch smiled under the wrappings, hurting his
cheeks a bit.

He would have to paper this over with her, cover his technical disapproval with a barrage
of compliments--so well deserved in other areas.

That is if he ever saw her again. Boris Tate had not heard from her in weeks.


Plesch was well aware of police activity in the neighboring buildings. Doubtlessly, he would
run into his friend "The Inspector"; old Winny and his wife had been so very good about
sending him lots of flowers everyday while he was in the hospital.

And they weren't always easy to come by on the island. Nor inexpensive.


He again studied his butter knife, which he would not be needing.

He did not want to move it too soon. His hands felt hot...he wanted to be sparing in how
often he scuffed them about, trying to use utensils with wrapped up hands.