Page 72 of Murder at the Dinner Party
He looked past me to the women seated at the table. “It often is.”
With my bag hooked over my arm and my parasol tucked under it, I headed upstairs to Harry’s office, balancing one cup on the other to free a hand to open the door. The door was jerked open from the other side, however, causing me to lurch forward. Coffee would have spilled over the floor if Harry hadn’t smoothly whisked the top cup off.
“That was close,” he said, returning his hat to the stand.
“I see you prioritized rescuing the coffee over rescuing me.” I nudged the door closed with my foot. “Nice to know what’s most important to you.”
“Don’t be so tart. Coffeeisimportant. Besides, you were my second priority, above both the parasol and the bag.”
“A true gentleman.”
He sat behind the desk and smiled into his cup. After a decent sip, he set it down. “I tried telephoning you this morning, but Uncle Alfred said he’d seen you leave. I thought you might come here, but that was over an hour ago.”
“I wanted to return the tiepin and watch to Mrs. Hardy. You weren’t required for that. As it turned out, I couldn’t give them back. They were stolen.”
“When?”
“After you and I parted yesterday. I bumped into a youth around the corner. He must have taken them from my bag.”
Harry swore under his breath, then picked up his cup and finished his coffee. “I’ll go there now,” he said, rising. “If it’s his usual haunt, he could be there again today.”
“Sit down, Harry. You and I both know he won’t return to the same corner.”
He sat, but looked decidedly annoyed about staying put.
“Mrs. Turner no longer wants me to investigate,” I went on. “She says there’s no point.”
“I suppose there isn’t. The Whitchurches are probably innocent of Hardy’s murder.”
“She’d made up her mindbeforeI told her that.”
He arched his brows. “What reason did she give?”
“She said there’s no proof it was murder.”
“That didn’t stop her from hiring you to begin with.”
“I spoke to the Campbells, too,” I said. “They admitted destroying Hardy’s references. They thought they were protecting the Whitchurches.”
“Congratulations on getting that much out of them. Very impressive. So…is that all? Are you leaving the investigation there, as Mrs. Turner suggested?”
I tapped my finger on the cup’s handle and nibbled on my lower lip.
A crooked smirk cast him in a rather wicked light. “I didn’t think so.”
“There’s no client anymore,” I reminded him.
“That hasn’t stopped you before.”
“There’s also no real evidence that a murder has occurred.”
“Except your instinct is telling you otherwise. Isn’t it?”
I didn’t answer that. I wasn’t sure whether my instincts were entirely trustworthy. “And there’s almost no reason to think he was murdered now that we proved the Whitchurches had no motive.”
“First of all, are we sure that’s put to bed?”
“What do you mean?”
