“Because I’m trying to solve her murder.” I thought he’d just hang up on me if I didn’t give him a reason to help me. “She betrayed me, too. Back in high school. I’m going to take a wild guess that Pamela was unfaithful to you.”
His laugh was low and bitter. “You did know her. As I told the police, I won’t miss Pamela, and I certainly won’t miss the massive alimony check every month. But I didn’t kill her.” There was a pause, and I could feel there was more coming. “And I didn’t hire anyone to do it either.”
I hadn’t even thought of a hitman. He must really have hated her.
“Who did she leave you for?”
“No idea.”
“But you’re certain there was someone?”
“If you knew Pamela, then you knew that she was always looking for the next bigger thing. The bigger fish to land.”
I didn’t know this man, but I was positive he hadn’t passively let her go. “And who was a bigger fish than you? Come on. You must have hired a private investigator.” He was definitely the kind who kept PIs in business. I had no idea whether he’d done such a thing, but a guy like that? With both his ego and his money on the line? Even as I said the words, I was positive he must have done so. And the fact that he didn’t end the call was all the answer I needed.
“That’s personal.”
I heard his pain and shamelessly used it to push. “But it could help solve her murder. You loved her once, enough to marry her. Don’t you want to at least know who killed her? And why?”
In the pause, I heard his breathing change. He likely wasn’t aware that his breaths had become short and jerky. “She was clever and hid her tracks well. I did have her followed but never successfully. She had to have help covering her tracks so thoroughly. Whoever she was meeting had a high level of security.” I got the feeling he thought he was a pretty giant fish. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meeting.”
Darn it. I thanked him for talking to me and asked him to call me if he thought of anything else. But I knew he wouldn’t. If he was like me, he just wanted to forget about that woman who’d caused him so much trouble. I was about to hang up when he said, almost as though he thought I was gone and he was speaking to himself, “I never should have given her that damn gallery.”
As I ended the call, I looked at Nyx, who was happily enjoying a post-lunch snooze, curled up on the couch with a shaft of sunlight making her sleek coat glow. “And what did he mean by that?” I asked her.
She shifted so her nose was tucked more deeply under her paw.
I spent the afternoon making up orders and letting Vi deal with the customers. I preferred being tucked away in the back room so that when I lost track of what I was doing and stared into space, I wouldn’t upset the paying public.
Because I was seriously distracted. Art. Between Pamela’s gallery and taking her degree in art history and the way she’d been studying the paintings in the Percival Brown residence, there was a connection. But what?
While I packed up orders and wrote out shipping labels, I kept wondering. I was driving myself crazy. Why couldn’t I let this go? There were competent police on it, and I had a business to run and sweaters to knit. Why did I keep pushing myself into police business?
But I knew the answer. I hadn’t liked her. She had treated me badly. But Pamela had been my friend once. And she was a woman like me, an American in England, without a lot of friends here. If I was killed, I would want to know that there’d be someone like me trying to find out what had happened.
Besides, maybe it would finally give me some closure.
So I continued to puzzle over Pamela’s death while Vi took care of the customers. Violet was good-humored and more than usually helpful, which made me wonder if there was something between her and William to put her in such a good mood. However, she didn’t tell me, and I didn’t pry. At this stage, I didn’t want to know.
Vi had gone home and I’d just closed the shop when Sylvia appeared with Gran. They had the look they always got when they had a new sweater for me to model. The bag in Sylvia’s hands was a bit of a giveaway too.
I never got tired of their gifts, especially when they were made by someone of good taste and fashion sense. Like Sylvia.
Eagerly, I pulled out the tunic sweater she’d been crocheting for me. I wouldn’t have known a pineapple stitch from a pineapple, but the result was gorgeous, lacy and breezy, and the color reminded me of swimming in the Mediterranean beaches of Egypt while visiting my parents.
“I love it,” I cried. It was too see-through to wear on its own, but I told them I had a white T-shirt I could wear beneath it.
“You could,” Sylvia agreed unenthusiastically, then put her hand into the bag I’d believed was now empty and pulled out a silk cami in a paler shade of turquoise.
“Perfect.”
“And try it with those nice silver hoop earrings you have,” she instructed. “And I’ll do your hair.”
I felt puzzled. “Is there an occasion?”
She looked taken aback. “Does one need an occasion to look one’s best?”
Chapter 18
Once more, at ten o’clock that night, we convened. I had my hair styled a la Sylvia in a messy updo that looked like it took thirty seconds to achieve but had taken the better part of an hour. It had been fun as we three chatted and caught up, talking about everything except murder. Sylvia had also done my makeup,
