Stewart winked at me. “That’s right, honey, you are a sweet, well-behaved kitty, and he’s a bad, bad little dog.”
The cat blinked, then calmly started washing his left front paw.
Stewart adjusted the heat under the minestrone. “Laura told me about the murder. That poor woman.”
“Did you know her?” I glanced at my watch to check the time. I had a good ten minutes before I had to leave.
“I might know her if I saw her.” Stewart grimaced. “That didn’t come out right. The name rang a faint bell, but I can’t match a face with it, sorry.”
“No reason you would know her, I expect.”
“Did you really get to meet Electra Barnes Cartwright?” Stewart’s eyes gleamed with suppressed excitement, I thought.
“Yes, I did. Don’t tell me you’re a fan, too.” I had no idea he had ever read the Veronica Thane books.
“My mother had a set of the books. She adored Veronica when she was a girl, and she let me read them when I was about ten.” Stewart smiled. “I had the biggest crush on Artie. I wanted him to be the hero, not that sappy ‘oh I’m so perfectly brave and amazing’ Veronica.” His voice took on a posh, exaggerated drawl over those last words.
That cracked me up. Veronica had rather outshone Nancy Drew in the perfection stakes. Stewart laughed with me.
“Artie did cut a dashing figure, didn’t he? Even though Veronica treated him like a lapdog most of the time.”
Stewart nodded. “At least he got the opportunity once a book to show off his brawn. He wasn’t all lapdog. Now tell me, what is Mrs. Cartwright like?”
“In surprisingly good shape for a woman who’s about to turn a hundred.” I shrugged. “She’s pleasant, for the most part, but I suspect she’s not terribly easy to live with. She and her daughter bicker a lot, but I suppose that’s not unusual.” I checked my watch. “Time for me to get going. Diesel, you have to stay home tonight. Sorry, boy, but you can’t go with me.”
The cat stopped cleaning his paw and meowed loudly. He got up, turned around, and sat again with his back to me. Stewart and I grinned. Diesel knew what the words you can’t go with me meant.
The Farrington House was a five-minute drive from my house. I quickly found a parking space and entered the hotel. A pleasant young woman at the front desk, in response to my inquiry, directed me to Winston Eagleton’s suite on the fifth floor. That seemed an odd place for a dinner party. Had I misunderstood Eagleton’s invitation?
My host answered my knock on his door right away, almost as if he had been standing right on the other side, waiting.
“Good evening, sir, please do come in.” Eagleton gestured grandly with his left arm, and I stepped into the room.
“Thank you.” When I moved farther into the main area of the suite, I could see that, as was often the case, I was evidently the first to arrive. I abhorred being late, and had for as long as I could remember. That meant I often arrived early. Even when I tried not to be on time, I seldom managed to be more than a couple minutes late.
“How are you this evening?” I inquired of my host.
“Absolutely tip-top,” Eagleton said. “So kind of you to join me for tonight’s little soiree.” He indicated one of the sofas. “Please, won’t you sit down? Can I offer you something to drink? Wine, scotch, a soft drink perhaps?”
“A glass of red wine would be fine.” I chose a spot at the end of the sofa next to a small table and made myself comfortable. “I hope I’m not too early.”
“Not at all, my dear chap, not at all.” Eagleton nodded briskly as he moved to the bar to pour my wine. “Punctuality seems to be a rare trait these days, but it is one I admire tremendously.” He brought me the wine, and I took a cautious sip.
I tried not to make a sour face, because the wine had a sour taste. I forced myself to smile as I swallowed because my host was watching intently for my reaction. “Nice,” I said as I put the wineglass down on the end table. I would have to find somewhere to dump the rest of it, because there was no way I was going to drink any more. I thought of Helen Louise and how appalled she would be. She despised bad wines, and this was one of the worst I’d ever had.
“Lovely.” Eagleton beamed as he went back to the bar, where he poured himself a tall glass of scotch—with no soda in sight. He downed about half of it in one long gulp, and he beamed even more widely when he came back to stand near the sofa. “There has been a change of plans, I regret to inform you, for this evening’s gathering.” Eagleton focused his gaze on a point behind me as he continued. “The confounded hotel mislaid my request—so terribly shoddy of them, don’t you think?—and informed me at the last minute that they would be unable to accommodate my dinner party. Thus I am unable to offer you and my other guests the repast that I had planned. I do beg your pardon most humbly.” He looked down at me again. “But I did manage to find some comestibles that I trust will be suitably tasty and nourishing.”
“I’m sure they’ll be fine.” I offered a polite smile.
“Do help yourself.” Eagleton pointed to the dinner table on the other side of the room. “Ah, another guest at the door. Please excuse me.” He walked away.
Taking my wine, I got up and moved over to the table to survey the food on offer—the usual chips, dip, and cheese tray one could find at most supermarkets. There were paper plates, napkins, and plastic utensils. Altogether a sad little array of party food.
There was something distinctly odd about this. Donna Evans, the catering manager at the Farrington House, was one of the most organized and detail-oriented people I had ever met. I didn’t buy the story that the hotel had “mislaid” Eagleton’s request. I was willing to bet the hotel had checked his credit card limit, found that he was maxed out, and turned him down.
Just how desperate for money was he?
TWENTY-FOUR
Even if Winston Eagleton was in dire financial straits, how did that connect him to the murder of Carrie Taylor? Desperation could drive a person to do things he might not otherwise contemplate, but there had to be a link between the need for money and the act of murder.
I realized that it was likely the one had nothing to do with the other in this case. Eagleton’s finances could well be a side issue.
Then again, what motivated the killer in this instance?
I mulled it over while I loaded my plate with potato chips, onion dip, a few grapes, and a dozen cubes of cheddar. I turned to see that Della Duffy was the new arrival. When I shifted position, I bumped my wineglass with my elbow. Red wine spilled all over the tablecloth.
At least my clumsiness saved me from having to dispose of it elsewhere. I set my plate down and grabbed a couple of napkins to sop up as much of the wine as I could. Once I had disposed of them, I took my plate and moved toward Eagleton and Della Duffy. I was embarrassed by my klutziness but I ought to apologize to the man.
My host and Ms. Duffy were engaged in a low-voiced conversation but they broke off when they realized I was approaching them.
“Evening, Ms. Duffy,” I said. “Nice to see you again.”
Della Duffy, dressed in a low-necked, black linen cocktail dress with flounces around the sleeves and the hem, examined me warily, I thought. “Did you bring that cat with you?”