Please join me. I am certain you could use a cup of coffee to boost you over the painful hump of that inevitable hangover, and I would like to speak to you about the next phase of my investigation. I am not yet ready to abandon the line of research that brought me here. Sincerely yours, Alice Lind Downstairs, a waiter wished me a happy Christmas Eve and brought me a breakfast of grapefruit, French toast, and bacon. I nursed a bitter cup of coffee while gazing out the window at a nickel-colored sky that promised snow. No other customer dined in any of the wicker chairs surrounding me, but the solitude brought me solace. The soft clinks of pans the cook washed in the nearby kitchen reminded me of home, of Mother baking sweet mincemeat pies for the Christmas Day feast, and of Margery and Bea wrapping presents for Margie’s children. The savory scent of the bacon somewhat mimicked the mulled spices the others would be enjoying in warm drinks after dinner. I craved roasted chestnuts and gingerbread—and the Christmas port my father somehow acquired every December.
