“I’m here to see Nancy Harkness.”
No hesitation whatever. “She’s gone for the day.”
I glanced at the wall clock. “It’s ten fifteen.”
“She has buyers in from out of town. Is there anything else?”
“Actually, there is. I need information about the Clipper estate. She’s the listing agent, isn’t she?”
Kim widened her eyes and worked to suppress a smile. “Are you in the market for a house?”
“I’m in the market for information about the Clipper estate.” I had no sense of humor whatever and I thought I’d better make that clear.
“If you leave a number, I can have her call you later in the week. She’s tied up with clients for the next three days.”
I thought rapidly to the mug shots of other agents in the office and remembered only one. “What about Catherine Phillips? Is she here?”
Kim Bass, Receptionist, didn’t look favorably upon this request. “I doubt she’d have time to see you. What’s this in reference to?” She asked this as though I’d told her once and she’d forgotten what I said.
“Business.”
“And you are?”
I took out a card and placed it on the desk in front of her. She picked up the card and read it, then focused on me fully, a response I’m often subject to from those who’ve had little or no experience with private investigators.
“You’re a private detective?” she asked.
“I am.”
She waited for me to elaborate, and when I said nothing, she picked up the handset and pressed two numbers. Her expression suggested a smackdown was forthcoming from someone higher up in the chain of command. For this, she could hardly wait.
“Good morning, Ms. Phillips. I have someone here who’d like to see you. No, ma’am, she doesn’t have an appointment.” There was a pause; Ms. Phillips was apparently asking for additional information.
Kim shot me a look, and her gaze returned to the card I’d given her. “Kinsley Millhoney,” she said, pronouncing “Millhone” as though the second syllable rhymed with “baloney” instead of “bone.”
I leaned forward. “Millhone. Accent on the first syllable.” No point in tackling the “Kinsley” issue.
Kim corrected herself, saying, “Millhone.” As she listened, her manner underwent a subtle shift. “Well, yes, ma’am. I’ll let her know. I can do that,” she said. She hung up. “She’ll be right out. May I offer you coffee or bottled water?”
“I’m fine,” I said. I was as surprised as she was that Catherine Phillips intended to emerge from her office to greet me personally. No wonder she was first in her class.
In a remarkably short period of time, she appeared from the corridor, holding out her hand. “So nice to meet you,” she said warmly. “I’m delighted you stopped by. Come on back to my office where we can chat.”
We shook hands and I worked to make my grip as firm and forthright as hers.
I wanted to send Kim Bass a smug look, but I restrained myself. Ms. Phillips ushered me into the corridor and then moved ahead so she could show me the way.
She was elegantly dressed in an understated way: black wool gabardine suit with a tailored jacket and knee-length skirt, white silk shell, medium heels with sheer black hose. She was trim and her hair was unabashedly gray, blunt cut, with a sheen to it. She reminded me of my Aunt Susannah, with whom I’d been smitten on sight. In moments like this, the desire for a mother fills me with something akin to pain. Mine died when I was five, and I carry a vision of her like an exemplar against which all women are tested. Ordinarily, Rosie is as close to a mother as I get. Granted, she’s opinionated, bossy, and overbearing, but at least she cares. This woman was my ideal: warm, lovely, gracious, encompassing. My inner self mewed like a kitten while my outer self sailed on.
“I hope Kim offered you coffee.”
“She did. Thanks.”
“You couldn’t have come at a better time. My ten o’clock canceled and I was at loose ends.”
I said, “Ah.”
This was worrisome. She was being so nice. She must have mistaken me for someone else, and what was I to say? I’d asked for her on a whim, and now I couldn’t think of one earthly reason I’d be quizzing her about the Clipper estate. Any hope of a convincing fib went straight out of my head. I pride myself on lying well, but I was drawing a blank. I wondered if I’d be forced to fall back on the truth—a risky proposition at best.