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The only reason Nero Wolfe allowed a known felon and a woman into the old brownstone on 35th for as long as Parker was tolerated, without bellowing, was her reaction to the orchids.
Sophie Deveraux had already tried to grift me, and when I said nuts she had tried to grift Wolfe, which I allowed because I thought it would be amusing. He said nuts even faster than I did, which I could have told her to expect. I also found out later that Alec Hardison had tried to hack us but due to Wolfe's dislike of technology the only hackable items in our possession were my cellphone, which I use purely for personal purposes, and the television, which is not a useful provider of intelligence on the motives and inner lives of the four single men living under the brownstone's roof, even if our Netflix queue probably offers some hints.
Fritz has a pressure cooker with a bluetooth connection, but it's rarely plugged in.
Because of all this, the brownstone was on high alert. Certain delicate inquiries into the whereabouts of Eliot Spencer by Wolfe (via myself, his amanuensis, goat, and errand boy) had triggered the defensive assaults by Deveraux and Hardison rather than friendly first contact, and we weren't sure why. I was of the opinion that you can't have everything in life, and that included the Spencer family recipe for vinegar-poached game birds that Wolfe had read about in some ancient gastronomy book and wanted from the current holder of the recipe.
In addition to being a Spencer and a good cook, it turned out Eliot of the Spencers was also a felon, former special-ops military, and a deeply suspicious man. I worked in military intelligence once, so I know how well all of that goes together.
But after the failed grifts and the fruitless hacking, they sent in this little bird of a woman named Parker to try and figure out what we were up to. When the big gong in my bedroom rang to let me know someone was where they shouldn't be in the orchid rooms, Wolf and I ended up in the doorway of the greenhouse together, staring at her.
"Wow," Parker said to Wolfe, when she saw us. "You're wearing like ten yards of yellow."
"I generally do, madam," Wolfe replied, while I put my gun away. "You appear to be misplaced. Perhaps we can direct you elsewhere."
"No, I'm supposed to be here," she said, turning around slowly. She still had some kind of climbing harness on but I figured I could carry her under one arm and still have a hand free for a jug of milk. "Are these your flowers? All of them?"
"Ten thousand," I supplied. "Give or take."
"I never really got flowers," she said. Wolfe was opening his mouth, impatiently and probably to bellow, when she continued. "I get ‘em now. I've never seen flowers this nice. What's this one called?"
***
In the morning, two men showed up on our doorstep. One was, or at least matched the photo of, Eliot Spencer. He looked annoyed. I eyeballed the other one, because he seemed familiar but I couldn't place the face, especially with such a sheepish expression on it.
"Nate Ford," he said. "This is Eliot Spencer. We're here to collect Parker."
"Blonde, about yea high, never really got flowers?" I asked.
"Listen, pal, I don't know why you're asking crime bloggers about me, but Lon Cohen said you wanted to know where I was. So whatever it is you want, either I can trade it for Parker or I can punch your goddamn face in," Spencer said.
I figured a conversation between Eliot Spencer and Nero Wolfe was something I didn't want to miss, so I showed them into the office, where Parker was balancing on one foot on the big globe in the corner.
"...circus arts and the criminal arts have been interrelated for thousands of years, so it is unsurprising," Wolfe was saying, evidently for Parker's benefit since I don't care for circuses and am only a criminal when circumstances demand it.
Ford went to the globe and held a hand up about at forehead height; Parker put one foot into his hand, the other on his shoulder, and clambered down the rest of him until she hit the floor. Spencer came to stand in front of Wolfe's desk and crossed his arms.
"So what is it you want, anyway?" he asked.
Wolfe slanted his head back. "Would you mind sitting down, Mr. Spencer? The chair is quite comfortable, and I dislike looking up to speak to people."
Spencer sat, I think because he couldn't work out what else to do. Ford went to stand on one side of him and I stood on the other, for symmetry's sake. Wolfe took in all of us before continuing.
"I understand you have reason to be paranoid, sir, but I assure you I harbor no ill intent towards you," he said. "I was inquiring of Lon Cohen about your present circumstances because of a boon I wish to ask."
"A boon," Spencer repeated.
"Yes. A favor, a gift. Your family, in your grandfather's day, invented a technique since lost to all outside knowledge, a method of poaching game fowl in vinegar which renders the bird vastly more succulent than normal methods. This technique, which I wish to investigate, creates a – "
He stopped, because Fritz had entered with his usual tray of beer, and Spencer had leapt from his seat. I was ready to throw him back in it, but he didn't seem like he was going to take a swing.
"Fritz Brenner?" Spencer asked. Fritz gave him a puzzled look. "You're Fritz Brenner, right? You wrote A Manifesto On Flavor."
"I am he," Fritz said stiffly.
"All this over vinegar?" Ford asked me, as Spencer fell over himself to befriend Fritz. I couldn't really look down on him for that; Fritz is well worth befriending.
"I've seen Wolfe do more for less," I told Ford.
"Less than vinegar?"
Fritz and Spencer were already on their way to the kitchen by then, Wolfe hustling his seventh of a ton after them as fast as he could, which left me and Ford and Parker in the office. Don't get me wrong, I like vinegar and I like game fowl, but I wasn't interested in the yelling that always followed new recipes being introduced into Fritz's kitchen.
"Can we go back up to the orchids?" Parker asked. "Also, are you guys long lost twins?"
"That is flummery, sir!" Wolfe's voice came from the kitchen.
"You gonna question me about barbecue sauce?" Spencer yelled back.
"Yes we can," I said. "I'll take you there now."
In the elevator, Ford looked at me and I looked at him.
"I don't see it," he said finally.
"Get a haircut," I advised him, and took us back to the roof, where we wouldn't disturb the vigorous vinegar debate going on below.