He helped them upstairs with their luggage, then came down to find Monica in the kitchen, sliding a veal casserole into the oven.
"What do you think?" she asked anxiously.
He shrugged.
"We'll take a look at these 'perfect gentlemen' and see. At least they're picking up the girls at their home; that's a good sign."
Just then they heard chimes from the front door.
"Now who the hell can that be?" Delaney said.
"Don't tell me Peter and Jeffrey have turned up three hours early."
But when he looked through the judas, he saw a uniformed deliveryman holding an enormous basket of flowers, the blooms lightly swathed in tissue paper. Delaney opened the door.
"Mr. and Mrs. Delaney?"
"Yes.
"Happy Holiday to you, sir."
"Thank you, and the same to you."
He signed for the flowers, handed over a dollar tip, and brought the basket back to the kitchen.
"Look at this," he said to Monica.
"My God, it's enormous! Is it for the girls?"
" No, the deliveryman said Mr. and Mrs. Delaney."
Monica pulled the tissue away carefully, revealing a splendid arrangement of carnations, white tea roses, lilacs*, and mums, artfully interspersed with maidenhair fern. -It's gorgeous!" Monica burst out. ,"Very nice. Where the hell did they get lilac this time of year? open the card."
Monica tore it open and read aloud: "Happy Holidays to Monica and Edward Delaney from Diane Ellerbee." Oh, Edward, wasn't that sweet of her?"
"Thoughtful," he said.
"She must have spent a fortune on that."
"Would you like a carnation for your buttonhole?" Monica asked mischievously.
He laughed.
"Have you ever seen me wear a flower?"
"Never. Not even at our wedding.
"What would you think if I suddenly showed up with a rose in my lapel?"
"I'd suspect you had fallen in love with another woman!"
They had a leisurely dinner at the kitchen table: veal casserole, three-bean salad, and a small bottle of California chablis that wasn't quite as dry as the TV commercials claimed. They talked about how well the girls looked and what time they should be home from their date.
"Make it two o'clock," Delaney said.
"I forget how long midnight mass lasts, but they'll want to stop off somewhere for a nightcap."
"Two in the morning?" Monica said dubiously.
"When I was their age I had to be home by ten in the evening."
"And that was only a few years ago," he said innocently.
"You!" she said, slapping his shoulder lightly.
"I better go upstairs and see how they're coming along."
"Go ahead," he said.
"I'll clean up in here."
After he had set the kitchen to rights, he inspected his liquor supply, wondering what he might offer the girls' gentlemen callers.
They'd know about martinis, he suspected, and daiquiris, margaritas, and black russians. He thought of the cocktails that had been popular when he was their age: whiskey sours, manhattans, old-fashioneds, and fizzes, smashes, and flips.
He suddenly decided to give them a taste of the old days, and stirred up a big pitcher of bronx cocktails, taking little sips until he had the mixture of gin, sweet and dry vermouth, and orange juice just right.
Then he put the pitcher in the fridge to chill.
He went into the living room and plugged in the Christmas lights. He sat solidly in his favorite chair, stared at the beautiful tree, and brooded about Calazo's report exonerating Ronald Bellsey. How could the detective be so sure?
He had the feeling that Calazo's judgment had resulted from more than a friendly dialogue between cop and subject.
But whatever it was, the report had to be accepted. They had taken the investigation of Bellsey's alibi as far as it could go.
Which left Joan Yesell… When he heard the door chimes, he glanced at the mantel clock and saw it was a few minutes after eight. At least they were prompt. He lumbered into the hallway to let them in, shouting upstairs, "Your perfect gentlemen are here!"
God, they were so young! But street cops now seemed young to Delaney.
And what was worse, the nation had elected presidents who were younger than he.
The boys certainly were presentable in their dinner jackets.
He didn't particularly care for ruffled shirts and butterfly bow ties-but different times, different fashions. What worried him most was that he couldn't tell one from the other, they were so alike. He addressed both as "young man."
"A drink while we're waiting?" he suggested.
"Don't go to any trouble, sir," one of them said.
"We have a reservation at nine, sir," the other one said.
"Plenty of time," Delaney assured them.
"It's already mixed."
He brought in the pitcher of bronx. cocktails and poured.
"Merry Christmas," he said.
"Happy Holidays," they said in unison, tried their drinks, then looked at each other.
"A screwdriver," one of them said.
"Sort of."
"But there's vermouth in it," the other one said.
"Right, sir?"
"Right."
"Whatever it is, it's special. I'd just as soon forget about the Plaza and stay right here."
"A bronx cocktail," Delaney said.
"Before your time. Gin, sweet and dry vermouth, and orange juice."
"I'm going to sell it in mason jars," one of them said.
"My fortune is made."
Delaney liked them. He didn't think they were especially handsome-go try to figure out what women saw in men but they were alert, witty, respectful. And they didn't scorn small talk, so the conversation went smoothly.
Monica came down first, and.both youths rose to their feet: another plus. Delaney poured her a cocktail and listened, as, within five minutes, she learned their ages, where they lived in Manhattan, what their fathers did for a living, what their ambitions were, and at what hour they intended to return her treasures, safe, sound, and untouched by human hands.
When Mary and Sylvia entered, they seemed so lovely to Delaney that his eyes smarted. He poured them each a halfcocktail, and a few minutes later said, "I guess you better get going. You don't want to keep the Plaza waiting. And remember, two o'clock is curfew time. Five minutes after that and we call the FBI. Okay?"
The girls gave him a quick kiss and then they were gone.
"Please, God," Monica said, "let it be a wonderful night for them.
"It will be," Delaney said, closing, locking, and chaining the door.
"Nice boys."
"Peter's going on to medical school," Monica reported as they returned to the living room, "and Jeffrey wants to be an architect."
"I heard," Delaney said, "and I was disappointed. No cops."
The cocktail pitcher was still half-full, and he got ice cubes from the kitchen and poured them each a bronx on the rocks.
"Should we put the presents under the tree tonight or wait for tomorrow morning?" he asked.
"Let's wait. Edward, you go to bed whenever you like. I'll wait up for them."
"I was sure you would," he said, smiling.
"And I plan to keep you company."
He sat relaxed in the high wing chair covered with bottlegreen leather, worn to a gloss. Monica wandered over to Diane Ellerbee's basket of flowers placed on their Duncan Phyfe desk. She made small adjustments in the arrangement.
"It really is gorgeous, Edward."
"Yes-2' he started, then stopped. He rose slowly to his feet.
"What did you say?" he asked in a strangled voice.
Monica turned to stare at him.
"I said it was gorgeous.
Edward, what on earth is the matter?"
"No, no," he said impatiently.
"I mean when the flowers first arrived and I brought them into the kitchen. What did you say then?"
"Edward, what is this?"