caught me.
“Better than an art gallery, eh?” His voice was deep and surprisingly pleasant. “Are you Hilda McCourt? That reporter who came to interview me did the usual half-assed job those media types always do – told me where to find Hilda but didn’t give me a whiff about how to recognize her.”
“I’m not Miss McCourt,” I said. “But she is staying with me. I’m Joanne Kilbourn. Can I help you?”
“We’ll give you a try. My name’s Wayne J. Waters,” he said. “I wanted to talk to Hilda about the funeral she’s got pending.” He shook his head and laughed. “The way we word things, eh?” he said. “Anyway, you get the drift.” He stepped closer. His aftershave was familiar and distinctive. Old Spice. “So is Hilda around?”
My first thought was to lie, to simply say that Hilda had left town. In his sleeveless muscle shirt, Wayne J.’s upper arms were grenades, and Hilda’s account of his nasty confrontation with Justine the night of the party leapt to my mind. But my friend was not a person who took kindlyto having decisions made for her; besides, the rumble of Wayne J.’s laugh was reassuring, and there was something in his eyes which, against all logic, inspired trust. It was a tough call. Luckily, while I was vacillating, Hilda appeared and made the call for me.
As soon as he saw her, Wayne J. introduced himself and held out his hand. Hilda’s response was icy. “Mr. Waters, when I’ve satisfied myself that you had nothing to do with Justine Blackwell’s death, I’ll take your hand. Until then …”
Hilda’s blue eyes were boring into him, but Wayne J. Waters didn’t flinch. “Fair enough,” he said. “Do you want to talk out here, or can I come inside?”
Hilda shot me a questioning look.
“It’ll be easier to talk where it’s cool,” I said.
As we walked back inside, Wayne J. glanced at the briefcase in my hand. “Decided to play hooky, Joanne?”
I shook my head. “Decided not to leave until you do, Wayne J.”
He put his head back and roared. “Who could blame you?”
Wayne J. Waters might have had his troubles with the law, but somewhere along the line he had come up with some personal rules about how to treat a lady. He waited until Hilda and I were seated before he lowered himself into my grandmother’s Morris chair. Once seated, he got right to the point.
“To set your mind at ease,” he said, “I had nothing to do with Justine’s death. If I have to give you specifics I will, but for now, I hope it’s enough to say that she was the classiest woman I ever knew, and she was a good friend to me and to a lot of other people I could name.”
Hilda adjusted the mother-of-pearl button fastening at the throat of her dress. “Yet you quarrelled with her bitterly the night of her party.”
Wayne J. Waters put the palms of his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “Didn’t you ever fight with a friend?” he asked softly.
Hilda wasn’t drawn in. “Not one who was murdered a few hours after our dispute,” she said.
Wayne J. reddened. “You were lucky. I’d serve ten years of hard time to see Justine walk into this room. But that isn’t gonna happen. As they say, all we can do is honour her memory.” He squared his shoulders. “That’s why I’m here. Hilda, will the people who Justine helped out at the end be welcome at her funeral?”
Hilda’s brow furrowed. “Provided it’s not a private service, I see no reason why anyone who chooses to attend wouldn’t be welcomed.”
Wayne J. sighed heavily. “That’s all I needed to know,” he said, standing up.
“Wait,” Hilda said. “I answered your question. Now please answer mine.”
He turned and looked at her expectantly.
“What was the cause of your quarrel with Madame Justice Blackwell?” she asked.
The question could hardly have been a surprise, but as Hilda posed it, the pulse in Wayne J.’s neck began to beat so noticeably that the wings of the eagle tattooed on his
“Better than an art gallery, eh?” His voice was deep and surprisingly pleasant. “Are you Hilda McCourt? That reporter who came to interview me did the usual half-assed job those media types always do – told me where to find Hilda but didn’t give me a whiff about how to recognize her.”
“I’m not Miss McCourt,” I said. “But she is staying with me. I’m Joanne Kilbourn. Can I help you?”
“We’ll give you a try. My name’s Wayne J. Waters,” he said. “I wanted to talk to Hilda about the funeral she’s got pending.” He shook his head and laughed. “The way we word things, eh?” he said. “Anyway, you get the drift.” He stepped closer. His aftershave was familiar and distinctive. Old Spice. “So is Hilda around?”
My first thought was to lie, to simply say that Hilda had left town. In his sleeveless muscle shirt, Wayne J.’s upper arms were grenades, and Hilda’s account of his nasty confrontation with Justine the night of the party leapt to my mind. But my friend was not a person who took kindlyto having decisions made for her; besides, the rumble of Wayne J.’s laugh was reassuring, and there was something in his eyes which, against all logic, inspired trust. It was a tough call. Luckily, while I was vacillating, Hilda appeared and made the call for me.
As soon as he saw her, Wayne J. introduced himself and held out his hand. Hilda’s response was icy. “Mr. Waters, when I’ve satisfied myself that you had nothing to do with Justine Blackwell’s death, I’ll take your hand. Until then …”
Hilda’s blue eyes were boring into him, but Wayne J. Waters didn’t flinch. “Fair enough,” he said. “Do you want to talk out here, or can I come inside?”
Hilda shot me a questioning look.
“It’ll be easier to talk where it’s cool,” I said.
As we walked back inside, Wayne J. glanced at the briefcase in my hand. “Decided to play hooky, Joanne?”
I shook my head. “Decided not to leave until you do, Wayne J.”
He put his head back and roared. “Who could blame you?”
Wayne J. Waters might have had his troubles with the law, but somewhere along the line he had come up with some personal rules about how to treat a lady. He waited until Hilda and I were seated before he lowered himself into my grandmother’s Morris chair. Once seated, he got right to the point.
“To set your mind at ease,” he said, “I had nothing to do with Justine’s death. If I have to give you specifics I will, but for now, I hope it’s enough to say that she was the classiest woman I ever knew, and she was a good friend to me and to a lot of other people I could name.”
Hilda adjusted the mother-of-pearl button fastening at the throat of her dress. “Yet you quarrelled with her bitterly the night of her party.”
Wayne J. Waters put the palms of his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “Didn’t you ever fight with a friend?” he asked softly.
Hilda wasn’t drawn in. “Not one who was murdered a few hours after our dispute,” she said.
Wayne J. reddened. “You were lucky. I’d serve ten years of hard time to see Justine walk into this room. But that isn’t gonna happen. As they say, all we can do is honour her memory.” He squared his shoulders. “That’s why I’m here. Hilda, will the people who Justine helped out at the end be welcome at her funeral?”
Hilda’s brow furrowed. “Provided it’s not a private service, I see no reason why anyone who chooses to attend wouldn’t be welcomed.”
Wayne J. sighed heavily. “That’s all I needed to know,” he said, standing up.
“Wait,” Hilda said. “I answered your question. Now please answer mine.”
He turned and looked at her expectantly.
“What was the cause of your quarrel with Madame Justice Blackwell?” she asked.
The question could hardly have been a surprise, but as Hilda posed it, the pulse in Wayne J.’s neck began to beat so noticeably that the wings of the eagle tattooed on his
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