Page 47 of Bedroom Therapy

“We’re back to Esther Knight’s death.”

Against her will, she found herself nodding.

He squeezed her hand and then let it go. “After the police department, I stopped off down the street to speak to those neighbors who wouldn’t answer the door when you were in trouble. Mr. Crossman is very sorry he didn’t help you out.”

“I see.”

“He’s going to call me if he sees a white van around the neighborhood.”

“That’s . . . um . . . a radical turnabout for him—isn’t it?”

“I can be pretty persuasive.”

“I know,” she answered, her mind going to the activities he’d persuaded her to try. To get her mind off that, she said, “You never told me what you found out about Esther Knight’s death.”

“Apparently she had gotten a call from a pay phone—and she might have gone out to meet someone. Late at night.”

“Why aren’t the police following up on that?”

He shifted in his seat. “Sometimes the cops have to set priorities. The phone call could have been a wrong number. They couldn’t find any evidence that someone she knew had phoned her. After a brief investigation, they decided the odds were that it was an accident. They didn’t have the time to keep digging. But I do.”

“Yes.”

Their eyes met across the table again. “If I’m speculating whether it’s related to the guy who broke into your house, I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just saying that I want to be cautious when it comes to you.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“And I want you to be realistic.”

She shivered. “Thanks again.”

Under the table, he slid his foot against hers.

She had started the conversation. Now she said, “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay.” He leaned back in his chair looking at her in a way that told her he had gone from what he called business to the personal. But all he said was, “Do you want dessert?”

“I’m not sure I need it. But a cup of cappuccino would be good.”

“An excellent idea.”

They placed the order, then sipped their Italian coffee.

“Thank you for a really nice evening,” she said. “Are you sure I can’t pay my share?”

“Absolutely sure,” he answered. “I’m glad you liked the restaurant.”

“And the company.”

“Yes.”

They smiled at each other, and she thought again how different he was from the men she usually met.

“What are you thinking,” he asked.

“That I’m glad the Knight family hired you,” she blurted, then wished she hadn’t put it quite that way.

He laughed. “Murder investigations make strange bedfellows.”

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