Page 2 of The Date

“My Grandfather was Irish. The real one,” she clarifies. “On the day of the murder, he went to the pub while my Mum and Grandmother shopped for groceries. I imagine he had a Guinness or twelve during that time. I’ve heard the Irish are quite partial to Guinness.”

“And whiskey.”

“Oh,” she says, pointing a short red fingernail in my direction. “Good point. Hard liquor makes a lot more sense, but I have my own theory about what happened that day.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Do you want to hear it?”

“Absolutely,” I answer, because, strangely, I’m completely invested now.

“There were so many factors at play.”

“How so?”

“I’ve lived in Melbourne all my life, so I know we can experience all four seasons in a single day.”

I arch a brow. “You think the weather had something to do with your Grandmother’s demise?”

“In a roundabout way. My Mum said they sat at the tram stop for almost an hour waiting for her father. We know those shopping bags held perishable goods inside because they were having chicken soup for dinner. Imagine if it was hot.”

“I’m not following,” I admit.

Rose’s cheeks balloon before she exhales, and for some reason I find it cute. “Spoiled chicken can cause salmonella, which can lead to food poisoning. That may be why, when my Grandmother finally lost her patience, she trudged up the steep incline to the pub, carrying all those heavy groceries, marched inside, grabbed her husband by the ear in front of all his drinking buddies, and dragged him outside.”

My eyes widen slightly. “She dragged him out by the ear?”

She casually lifts one shoulder. “She made my Mum wait outside, saying a pub was no place for a young lady, so I can’t confirm that part. It’s purely an assumption.” I press my lips together. This woman is too much. “I do know they fought all the way back to the tram stop, and that’s where the dinner conversation came up. With the alcohol in my Grandfather’s system …” Rose lifts her hand, pinches her fingers together like a makeshift beak, and opens and closes them rapidly. “… and the constant yapping from my Grandmother, I believe the giblets were simply the catalyst that day. The final straw that pushed him to do something so horrendous.”

I cover my mouth with my closed fist again and cough, trying to muffle my laugh. “Your theory sounds plausible,” I say.

“Mum’s always described her mother as the sweetest person ever, but when she got a bee in her bonnet …”

My eyebrows jump. “A bee in her bonnet?”

“To clarify, there was no bee; I’m also unsure about the bonnet. We are talking the olden days, though, and it was customary for women to wear bonnets and hats in public back then.”

“Olden days? How old is your mother?”

“Sixty.”

“That means it was fifty-two years ago, Rose. I wouldn’t consider the mid 70’s the olden days.” Rose shrugs as her eyes zero in on the amber liquid in my glass. I reach for it, bringing it to my mouth. “Bourbon,” I clarify.

“I’ll take your word for it. Although I’m surprised to see you drinking alcohol. Being a fitness buff and all.”

“Fitness buff?”

“Yes, Melody told me all about the Zumba and Pilates classes you run. Your tailored suit doesn’t exactly scream ‘downward dog’, but I appreciate you dressing up for our blind date.”

Zumba?

Pilates?

Downward dog?

Blind date?

Those last two words are the ones that shock me the most, but before I get the chance to tell her this isn’t a date—and that she’s approached the wrong table—the waitress appears, directing her attention to Rose. “Can I get you something to drink?”