Death and Sensibility

by Elizabeth Blake

  “What are you doing?” Farnsworth asked, peering over her shoulder as Erin bent down to save links to the web pages she been browsing.

  “Doing a background check,” Erin said, closing her laptop.

  “On whom, pray tell?”

  “Grant Apthorp, if you must know.”

  Farnsworth glowered at her. “Why on earth—”

  “Because he knows Barry Wolf, and might have a motive to kill him.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “And because he’s taken an interest in you.”

  “So what?”

  “So I’ve taken an interest in him.”

  “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick.”

  “I sincerely hope you’re right.”

  “You’re not even dressed for dinner,” Farnsworth said, looking at her disapprovingly.

  “I—” she started, but was interrupted by the ringing of her room phone.

  “Wonder who could that be?” said Farnsworth as Erin picked up the receiver next to the bed.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Coleridge? It’s Peter Hemming.”

  “Oh, hello,” she said, wondering why he was calling her by her last name.

  “I wonder if it would be convenient if I dropped by?”

  “When?”

  “Now, if possible.”

  “All right,” she said. It wasn’t convenient at all, and she thought longingly of the trout almondine she had planned on ordering.

  “It’s your sexy detective, isn’t it?” Farnsworth whispered, but Erin waved her off.

  “How long will it take you to get here?” she asked him.

  “Twenty minutes, if that’s all right.”

  “Fine,” she said, her stomach rumbling as she thought about courgettes in truffle cream sauce.

  “See you then.”

  “My room number is—” she began, but he had already rung off.

  “He’s coming over?” Farnsworth said as Erin replaced the receiver.

  “Apparently.”

  Her friend’s face fell. “So you can’t come to dinner.”

  “You go on ahead—I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Maybe he wants to eat.”

  “That would be weird.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  “This isn’t a social call. He’s coming to talk about the case.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He called on the hotel phone. And his tone was formal, all business.”

  “But when he sees you, he’ll probably melt.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “He did send you flowers.”

  “He’s still not the melting type.”

  Farnsworth sighed. “Men. Can’t live with them, can’t live without—”

  “Goodbye, Farnsworth,” Erin said, holding the door open.

  “And now my best friend is kicking me out,” she said, sighing mournfully.

  “Don’t be pathetic,” Erin said, but she couldn’t help smiling. Farnsworth was having her on.

  “You are my best friend, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am. Now go.”

  “I’ll tell them to save some trout for you.”

  “Go,” Erin said, laughing, and Farnsworth obeyed.

  Once she was gone, Erin scurried about the room, tidying up, stopping in front of the mirror to smooth her hair, which was quite scruffy. She dug a pair of clean socks from the drawer and pulled a pair of knee-length leather boots on over her wool slacks. Spotting a couple of stains on her shirt, she yanked a rust-colored silk blouse from its hanger in the closet and pulled it over her head, topping it off with a fitted wool jacket and tiger’s-eye brooch in the shape of a seahorse on the lapel. Satisfied, she studied her reflection in the mirror. She looked put together, but not fussy—business casual, they called it these days.

  She glanced at the bedside clock—he would be here in less than five minutes. What if he was early? She’d best meet him in the lobby, to avoid the discomfort of seeing him in her room, which felt too intimate under the circumstances. Slipping her key in her jacket pocket, she stood in front of the bathroom mirror and swiped lipstick over her lips. The label said Passion Fruit Posh. It was a little too pink for her taste, but Farnsworth had given it to her and Erin wore it from time to time.

  “There,” she muttered, wiping off the excess with her index finger. “That will have to do.”

  She picked up the laminated sheet of hotel amenities on the desk and studied it. If she missed dinner because of Detective Hemming, she would have to rely on room service. She was already hungry, and didn’t fancy a trip out in the storm to forage for food. As she perused the brochure, she heard two people talking out in the hall. It sounded like a man and a woman. Though they were speaking in low tones, their voices carried an intensity of emotion. Dropping the menu on the table, Erin crept toward the hall to listen. The glossy brochure missed its target, fluttering to the floor, but Erin ignored it, pressing her ear to the door.

  “It was foolish of you,” hissed the woman.

  “What was I supposed to do?” said the man in a sulky voice. “Just sit and wait for the old coot to—?”

  “He may be old, but he’s still your father!”

  “Is he, though?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve heard otherwise.”

  Erin put her eye to the peephole. The woman was Judith Eton, and she was talking to a lanky youth with spiky, dyed yellow hair.

  “What have you heard?” asked Judith.

  The boy looked down at his shoes. “Rumors.”

  “What rumors?”

  “About my real father.”

  “Who have you been talking to?”

  Erin felt a sneeze coming on. Pinching her nose tightly with her thumb and forefinger, she tiptoed away as quickly as possible. But her left foot landed on the discarded brochure, and shot forward too quickly for her to recover her balance. She didn’t realize she had stepped on the slippery sheet until she was in the air. Before she knew it, Erin was flat on her back on the floor, but not before her kneecap collided painfully with the bedframe.

  “Ow,” she muttered, rubbing her knee.

  As she lay there, contemplating what she had just heard, there was a knock on the door. “Oh, just perfect timing,” she mumbled, struggling to her feet.

  A second knock came quickly. “Just a minute!” she yelled, feeling completely out of sorts.

  She opened the door to see a bemused-looking Detective Hemming, holding a somewhat battered fedora, fetchingly rumpled in a tan raincoat. Both his hat and coat were damp. At the sight of him, her irritation faded.

  “Hello,” he said, tilting his head to the side, a half smile on his handsome face. She had forgotten how good-looking he was, in that absent-minded professor way. Bits of blond stubble protruded from his chin. The detective looked leaner since she last saw him, even a bit gaunt. His deep-blue eyes were red-rimmed, perhaps from lack of sleep.

  “Come in,” she said, suddenly glad they weren’t meeting in the lobby after all.

  “Nice flowers,” he said, removing his hat.

  “Very tasteful, I think. Not too Austentacious at all.”

  “What happened to you?” he added, watching her limp over to the window.

  “Rapped my knee against the bed. Did you see the couple talking outside my room?”

  “There was no one there when I arrived.”

  “But they were just outside, in the hall—”

  “Not when I got here.”

  Where could they have gone? They must have slipped through the door leading to the stairwell on the far end of the hall, spooked by the sound of her falling.

  “Why do you ask?” he said.

  “No reason,” she lied, eyeing the folder in his hand. “What have you got there?”

  “A copy of the medical examiner’s report on Barry Wolf,” he said, holding it out to her.

  “For me?”

  “You can keep it if y
ou like.”

  “But why—”

  “Look at the cause of death.”

  Her eyes fell on the information near the top of the page, the words printed neatly in the text box. Cardiac Arrest. Next to it, under manner of death: Natural Causes. Frowning, she read on. “But look at this—No visible signs of previous arterial disease.”

  Hemming sighed and wiped his brow, which was damp—from the precipitation outside, she wondered, or was he sweating? The room wasn’t particularly warm.

  “Would you like to sit down?” she asked.

  “Thank you,” he said, sinking into one of the armchairs. He looked exhausted. “People die of heart attacks all the time, you know.”

  “But without a prior medical condition—”

  “Do you know how many things can cause cardiac arrest? They vary from high blood pressure to hormone imbalance to stress, for God’s sake.”

  “Was there any evidence—”

  “Wasn’t he to be the keynote speaker at your conference?”

  “Yes.”

  “That sounds stressful to me.”

  “He was the kind of person who lived for attention.”

  Hemming raised an eyebrow. “One man’s meat—”

  “Speaking of poison,” she murmured, leafing through the papers. “Where’s the toxicology report?”

  “The samples are still at the lab.”

  “Then we don’t really know anything, do we?”

  “There is no ‘we.’ You aren’t—”

  “You, then. You don’t know anything.”

  “If we find anything suspicious, we’ll open an investigation. Otherwise, there’s no particular reason to suspect—”

  “Murder?”

  “Foul play.”

  “Whatever you want to call it.”

  “Look,” he said wearily. “I came to ask you to give it a rest.”

  “You don’t look well. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Please promise me you’ll let us handle this.”

  “Handle what? You just told me there was no cause for concern.”

  “I just don’t want you—”

  “Mucking about on my own?” she said, perching on the end of the bed.

  “Yes.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not safe.”

  “See, that makes me think you don’t believe the medical report. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be worried about me.”

  “I’m always worried about you.”

  “Do you want to have dinner?”

  “I’m sorry—I can’t. I have to drive to my mother’s first thing tomorrow.”

  “How is she?”

  “Not great.”

  “If you ever want to talk about it—”

  “Some other time, maybe.” He struggled to his feet. “I should be going.”

  “Thanks for stopping by,” she said tartly, irritated he had rebuffed her offer of help.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I have a lot on my mind right now.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Maybe later this week—”

  “Sure,” she said, holding the door open for him. “You look like you need a proper night’s sleep.”

  He nodded, then looked at her with such intensity that she held her breath.

  “Erin.”

  “Yes?”

  “I …”

  She took a step closer so that she could smell his aftershave, clean and sharp, like a pine woods after a rainstorm. Erin took another step, expecting him to back up, but he did not. He lifted a hand and cupped her face, his fingers warm on her cheek. Were they trembling a little? She wasn’t sure. She leaned in toward him, her lips parted. Down the hall, a door opened and closed, breaking the spell.

  He removed his hand and gave a little cough. “I have to go. Maybe we can get together while you’re here—I mean …”

  She surprised herself by putting a finger to his lips. “I’m counting on it.”

  Removing her hand, he held it in his for a moment. His hand was unexpectedly soft. “Please promise me that you won’t do anything foolish,” he said.

  “All right,” she replied.

  “And please leave criminal investigations to the police,” he said, putting on his rather soggy hat.

  “Of course,” she lied.

  When he had gone, she felt bereft and out of sorts.

  She looked at the bedside clock—if she hurried, she could just make it to the hotel restaurant before the kitchen closed.

  Chapter Twelve

  “It can’t be that bad,” said Farnsworth as Erin tucked into the trout almondine. She had made it to the restaurant just in time to order before the kitchen closed.

  “It’s brilliant,” she said, breaking off a piece of fresh baguette and smearing it with butter. “Better than I even imagined.”

  “I meant your meeting with your sexy detective.”

  “Stop calling him ‘my sexy detective.’”

  “Well, isn’t he?”

  “He’s most certainly not ‘mine.’”

  “But he is sexy.”

  “Yes, he is,” Erin admitted, wolfing down a bite of courgettes in tarragon cream sauce. She was famished, her disappointment at the meeting with Detective Hemming channeled into an appetite for the hotel’s outstanding cuisine. Erin realized now that she had hoped he would stay and have dinner with her.

  “If you eat too fast you’ll choke on your food,” said Farnsworth.

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “Here we are,” said Grant Apthorp, arriving at the table with two mugs. “One Irish coffee and one with sambuca and whipped cream.”

  Sam the waiter had been on duty when Erin ordered, but his shift was over, so Grant had offered to fetch them a nightcap from the bar. He set the Irish coffee in front of Erin, handing the one with sambuca to Farnsworth.

  “Ta very much,” Farnsworth said, sipping it. “Lovely.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Erin murmured, her mouth half full of flaky, fragrant fish.

  “Nothing for you?” Farnsworth asked him.

  “I have a panel first thing in the morning,” he replied, sitting next to her. The chair creaked beneath his weight. Grant Apthorp made every piece of furniture he sat in look like it was from a doll’s house. If she were a sculptor, Erin thought, he would make a perfect a model for a statue of Atlas. He looked like he could easily carry the burden of the world on his shoulders and still have strength to spare.

  “How’s the trout?” he asked.

  “Gorgeous,” Erin replied, sliding some basmati rice pilaf onto her fork.

  “The food here is brilliant,” said Farnsworth. “I wish your sexy detective had joined us.”

  “What exactly is the story with him?” Grant asked.

  Farnsworth told him about the murder in Kirkbymoorside, perhaps slightly exaggerating her own role in the case.

  “And you haven’t seen him since then?”

  “Not until tonight,” said Erin.

  “He sent her flowers,” Farnsworth added.

  “That sounds like a sign to me,” Grant remarked.

  “But his mother is sick, and he’s very preoccupied with her illness.”

  “But he came to see you despite the fact. That must mean something.”

  “He just wanted to show me the medical examiner’s report on Barry Wolf.” Strictly speaking, that wasn’t true, but she didn’t feel like discussing her personal life with a man she had only just met.

  “Why?”

  “Because she thinks he was murdered,” Farnsworth said.

  “Does your detective agree?” asked Grant.

  “No,” Erin said, savoring the last bite of trout.

  “Why did he bring you the report?”

  “To show me I was wrong.”

  Grant smiled. “Is he afraid you’ll go chasing after a murderer?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Farnsworth said, sipping her coffee.

  “Ca
n we not talk about this anymore?” said Erin.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you ladies,” Grant said, rising. “I’m all in, and I really do have an early morning tomorrow.”

  “Where’s the bill?” asked Farnsworth.

  “It’s all taken care of,” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  “That’s not right. You can’t—”

  “I just did,” he replied, walking toward the exit.

  “But—”

  “It’s a tax deduction. Good night.”

  “Thank you!” Erin called after him. Without turning around, he raised a hand and gave a little wave.

  Farnsworth sighed. “Isn’t he magnificent?”

  Erin had to agree, though a small, ungenerous part of her envied her friend’s happiness. Watching him walk away, his gait solid but graceful, she was suddenly reminded of the overheard conversation in the hall outside her room.

  “Farnsworth?” she said.

  “Yes, pet?”

  “This might be crazy, but …” She paused, stirring the whipped cream into her Irish coffee, a little whirlpool of white swirling in the dark liquid.

  Farnsworth leaned forward. “What? Out with it.”

  Erin told her about the conversation in the hall.

  “Did you get a look at them?”

  “The woman was Judith Eton, and I’m pretty sure the young man is her son.”

  “Good lord,” said Farnsworth. “So if Barry Wolf isn’t his father, then—”

  “Shh!” Erin said, looking around, but the only other customers still lingering were a young couple spooning in a dark corner in the back of the room. Their foreheads were touching, and they gazed deeply into each other’s eyes, oblivious to their surroundings. Erin leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Jeremy certainly seems to think his father may be someone other than Barry.”

  “Did he mention where he got that idea?”

  “No.”

  “What about Judith?”

  “She was dancing around the subject.”

  “It could just be rumors.”

  “Or he could be right. In which case—” Erin looked at her friend, not sure whether to mention her suspicion, but, as usual, Farnsworth read her mind.

  “Grant Apthorp? No, I don’t see it. They have totally different builds. Jeremy’s thin as a sylph.”

  “Jeremy’s still just a lad. He’ll fill out as he gets older. He certainly doesn’t look like Barry.”