CHAPTER 12
Bob Preston peered down at our plates, then glanced around the restaurant. He sat tentatively, frowning at the Western-style light fixture hanging down over our table.
“This is awfully bright,” he announced. “Makes it hard to see.” He proceeded to start unscrewing the bulb. Unfortunately, it was too hot. Bob yelped, dipped his fingers into his wife’s ice water, carefully wiped them on the clean napkin of the place setting in front of him, and unscrewed the bulb a few more revolutions before dipping, drying, and unscrewing again. Finally he had the bulb out. He reached across and with extreme delicacy placed it on the empty seat at our table for four.
Agatha tilted her head to focus on this little drama. “Poor Bob,” she murmured sympathetically once the lightbulb was dispensed
