Page 16 of Murder at the Dinner Party
He went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “As to Hobart, I thought I knew him. I thought we had a mutual understanding. But now…I’m no longer certain of his loyalty.”
Floyd finally stepped forward. “I have a suggestion. Why don’t you investigate him, Cleo?”
I spluttered a laugh. When I realized he was serious, the laugh turned to a protest. “I am not spying on Mr. Hobart for you, Floyd. Or for you, Uncle.”
“Father will pay you.”
“Is this why you hauled me in here?”
He dug his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels, but the innocent look wouldn’t work on me.
“Honestly, Floyd. If you want to know what’s on Mr. Hobart’s mind, why not ask him?”
When his response was to glance at his father, I turned back to my uncle.
“Hobart may not give a direct answer,” Uncle Ronald said. “Cleopatra, I won’t ask you to investigate him if you don’t want to.”
“Good, because I won’t.”
“Give it more thought. You’re part of this family, and your loyalty should be with us and the hotel, not the staff.”
He may not be asking me to investigate, but he was doing something even more unpalatable. He was using emotional blackmail in an attempt to coerce me.
I wasn’t going to be persuaded, but I wasn’t going to burn my bridges either. Fortunately, sometimes my temper could be reined in before it did any damage. “The needs of the family, the hotel and the staff are closely entwined. What benefits one, benefits the other two. Look how well the situation turned out with Cobbit and the grooms. I’m sure this situation will resolve just as well for everyone.” There. It wasn’t an agreement to investigate, but it wasn’t an outright refusal either.
Uncle Ronald grunted, then opened the ledger and picked up a pencil. He concentrated on his work, dismissing Floyd and me with a flick of his finger.
I hurried out ahead of Floyd, not wanting to speak to him lest he asked me again to investigate Mr. Hobart. As I passed the door to my aunt and uncle’s suite, I slowed. I wanted to ask Aunt Lilian about the Campbells, but the timing didn’t feel right. If she was still in a sour mood, it was best to leave her alone. Besides, my own mood was positively black.
I returned to my suite and tried to read a book while I waited for Harmony to come as prearranged to do my hair. The moment she entered, I couldn’t help blurting out what Uncle Ronald and Floyd had asked me to do. It wasn’t until afterward that I regretted it. While she and I were friends, my uncle wouldn’t want me discussing hotel business with anyone outside the family.
Harmony’s response was to order me to sit at my dressing table, face the mirror, and tell her how I wanted my hair done for afternoon tea. She understood that I’d simply needed to vent my problems. I wasn’t looking for answers.
I did feel better and was able to change the topic. I told her what Harry and I had learned today. At the mention of his name, her hands stilled.
“You’re blushing,” she said.
“I am not! It’s hot in here.” I picked up a fan from my dressing table and flapped it in front of my face.
She smiled and continued to arrange my hair.
Once that task was finished, she helped me dress in a pink-and-green tea gown with lace sleeves and more lace across my décolletage, then sent me on my way with a spray of Guerlain. I met my aunt and Flossy in the corridor, waiting for the lift.
Flossy gave me a knowing look and a subtle glance at her mother.
Aunt Lilian put out her hands to me and pecked my cheek. She looked flushed, her eyes brilliant and huge in her gaunt face. I didn’t need to employ any detective skills to know she’d had a dose of her tonic to get her through afternoon tea. “My dearest niece, how pretty you look! Doesn’t she look lovely, Florence?”
“She does,” Flossy said.
“My two lovely girls, what beauties you are.” She squeezed my hands before turning to the lift door. She tapped her foot on the carpet. “What’s taking John so long?”
Flossy and I exchanged disappointed glances.
Downstairs, I caught sight of Mr. Hobart in the foyer. He must have been watching the lift doors and waiting, because he approached. For a moment, I thought he’d caught wind of my earlier meeting with Uncle Ronald and Floyd, but his announcement eased my conscience.
“Miss Fox, you have a telephone call. You may take it in my office.” As he walked beside me, he whispered, “It’s Harry.” He peeled away to speak to a new guest looking lost near the entrance.
In his office, I picked up the telephone receiver and leaned forward to speak into the mouthpiece. “Hello, Harry.”
