ILL-TIMED ENTANGLEMENTS (The Kate Huntington mystery series #2) by Kassandra Lamb Page B
Authors: Kassandra Lamb
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down a bit, Kate prompted, “What about the Morrises? I notice they were the only couple who were both in the writers’ group.”
“Oh, they’re a sad case. You know Mrs. Morris is no longer with us.” Kate shook her head slightly, even though she did know that the woman was dead. She wanted to keep the director talking.
“Yes, the poor dear, she died just a year after they moved here,” Mrs. Carroll said. “I feel sorry for Mr. Morris, although he is a bit of a difficult man. Quite frankly I don’t know how Mrs. Morris put up with him all those years.”
• • •
The rest of Kate’s morning was quite frustrating. At three of the apartments she’d tried, no one answered the doorbell. The two women she did catch up with said they hadn’t really known Doris all that well. But they’d only admitted that after they’d plied her with refreshments and tried to pump her for information about the murder investigation.
At eleven-fifty, Kate was sitting in the atrium in the center of Betty’s apartment building. She had just called in at the Franklins’ for an Edie fix. After Samantha had reassured her that the baby was doing fine, she had held the phone to the little girl’s ear so Kate could tell her how much Mommy loved and missed her.
Trying to distract herself from her homesickness, Kate was re-writing her scribbles from her interview with Mrs. Carroll, so Betty would be able to make sense of them. Her notes covered the small wrought iron table, nestled amongst lush plants that were thriving in the filtered light from skylights two stories above her head.
She was just finishing her task when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She jumped a little, then looked up into Skip Canfield’s smiling face.
Kate smiled back, glad that reinforcements had arrived and also, she realized, glad to see him. “Hi,” she said, gesturing to one of the chairs on the other side of the little table. She noted that changing roles from bodyguard to private investigator did not mean he was letting himself go. His tall body still looked quite buff. She blushed a little when she realized she had been staring a bit too long at his broad shoulders and muscular chest, clothed in a crisply ironed tan shirt. That matched the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, she noticed.
The hem of his shirt hung loosely over his dark slacks to cover the pistol that Kate knew, from their past association, would be tucked in a waistband holster at the small of his back.
Kate started filling Skip in on their efforts so far, but she was distracted by Frieda and another woman who were sitting on a bench across the atrium from them.
Frieda waggled her fingers at Kate by way of a greeting but did not interrupt her conversation. The other woman was apparently partially deaf because she kept saying in a loud voice, “What did you say, Frieda? Speak up.” It was also apparent that Frieda was trying not to speak up any more than was necessary, no doubt because she was gossiping.
Kate was attempting to ignore them so she could finish her report to Skip when the words, “Betty’s book” and “poker,” caught her attention. Frieda and her bench mate were apparently talking about the murder.
Skip had noticed Kate’s divided attention. He followed her line of vision. Just as he located the cause of her distraction, there was a rustling movement in the plants behind the women’s bench. Skip and Kate exchanged a quick glance, then went back to discreetly observing the ladies. Skip leaned forward, letting his straight brown hair, worn slightly longer than a traditional male haircut, fall across the side of his face. He could now watch the women out of the corner of his eye, while he appeared to be concentrating on Kate’s face.
Kate only caught the occasional word, mostly names, some of which she recognized from the list of the writers’ club members. Frieda said “Morris” at one point. That reminded Kate that they needed to try again to
“Oh, they’re a sad case. You know Mrs. Morris is no longer with us.” Kate shook her head slightly, even though she did know that the woman was dead. She wanted to keep the director talking.
“Yes, the poor dear, she died just a year after they moved here,” Mrs. Carroll said. “I feel sorry for Mr. Morris, although he is a bit of a difficult man. Quite frankly I don’t know how Mrs. Morris put up with him all those years.”
• • •
The rest of Kate’s morning was quite frustrating. At three of the apartments she’d tried, no one answered the doorbell. The two women she did catch up with said they hadn’t really known Doris all that well. But they’d only admitted that after they’d plied her with refreshments and tried to pump her for information about the murder investigation.
At eleven-fifty, Kate was sitting in the atrium in the center of Betty’s apartment building. She had just called in at the Franklins’ for an Edie fix. After Samantha had reassured her that the baby was doing fine, she had held the phone to the little girl’s ear so Kate could tell her how much Mommy loved and missed her.
Trying to distract herself from her homesickness, Kate was re-writing her scribbles from her interview with Mrs. Carroll, so Betty would be able to make sense of them. Her notes covered the small wrought iron table, nestled amongst lush plants that were thriving in the filtered light from skylights two stories above her head.
She was just finishing her task when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She jumped a little, then looked up into Skip Canfield’s smiling face.
Kate smiled back, glad that reinforcements had arrived and also, she realized, glad to see him. “Hi,” she said, gesturing to one of the chairs on the other side of the little table. She noted that changing roles from bodyguard to private investigator did not mean he was letting himself go. His tall body still looked quite buff. She blushed a little when she realized she had been staring a bit too long at his broad shoulders and muscular chest, clothed in a crisply ironed tan shirt. That matched the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, she noticed.
The hem of his shirt hung loosely over his dark slacks to cover the pistol that Kate knew, from their past association, would be tucked in a waistband holster at the small of his back.
Kate started filling Skip in on their efforts so far, but she was distracted by Frieda and another woman who were sitting on a bench across the atrium from them.
Frieda waggled her fingers at Kate by way of a greeting but did not interrupt her conversation. The other woman was apparently partially deaf because she kept saying in a loud voice, “What did you say, Frieda? Speak up.” It was also apparent that Frieda was trying not to speak up any more than was necessary, no doubt because she was gossiping.
Kate was attempting to ignore them so she could finish her report to Skip when the words, “Betty’s book” and “poker,” caught her attention. Frieda and her bench mate were apparently talking about the murder.
Skip had noticed Kate’s divided attention. He followed her line of vision. Just as he located the cause of her distraction, there was a rustling movement in the plants behind the women’s bench. Skip and Kate exchanged a quick glance, then went back to discreetly observing the ladies. Skip leaned forward, letting his straight brown hair, worn slightly longer than a traditional male haircut, fall across the side of his face. He could now watch the women out of the corner of his eye, while he appeared to be concentrating on Kate’s face.
Kate only caught the occasional word, mostly names, some of which she recognized from the list of the writers’ club members. Frieda said “Morris” at one point. That reminded Kate that they needed to try again to
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