Murder on Nob Hill by Shirley Tallman

sad. She's such a lovely young woman.”
    “Yes, it's been difficult for her. I understand another of your former partners has been named executor of Mr. Hanaford's estate.”
    He nodded. “Indeed. Mr. Benjamin Wylde. A fine attorney, I assure you. Mrs. Hanaford is in capable hands.”
    “She is now,” I agreed cryptically, then asked the senator if he had any idea who might have wanted to see the banker dead.
    He seemed taken aback. “My dear young lady, you need look no further than the streets to find the killer. I assure you, Cornelius Hanaford did not have an enemy in the world.”
    “Come now, Senator,” I gently chided. “Have you ever known a man of finance who didn’t have adversaries?”
    “Surely not the sort who would kill him,” he protested.
    “Perhaps not,” I went on, ignoring his disapproving frown. “But if the servants didn’t let the killer into the house, Mr. Hanaford must have opened the door himself. I hardly think he would have invited a stranger in at that hour of the night.”
    Senator Broughton's face suffused with color and I realized I had gone too far. Murder was not an appropriate subject for polite conversation, and certainly not at a social soiree. I was definitely not making a favorable impression.
    “Are you suggesting,” he asked darkly, “that Cornelius knew his assailant? That he ushered him into his study so the man could kill him?”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Rufus Mills had stopped fidgeting and was giving us his full attention. Again, his expression left me with the distinct impression that he was afraid.
    “I’m merely stating the facts as they’ve been presented to me,” I said, turning my attention back to the senator.
    “That is the danger of listening to gossip,” he said reproachfully. “It's usually silly and frequently dangerous. This is a matter for the police. That is what they are paid for and—”
    “I must leave,” Mr. Mills broke in. “My wife is unwell.”
    Broughton looked at his friend in surprise. “What are you talking about, Rufus? Martha spoke to Regina just yesterday and she seemed in excellent health.”
    “It was sudden. Quite sudden.” Mills turned to me and nervously cleared his throat. “You’ll inform your parents, Miss Wool-son? And offer my apologies?”
    “Yes, of course, Mr. Mills. But my mother is right over—”
    He didn’t so much as glance in my mother's direction. “I must go.” He gave his friend a harried look, then spun on his heels and all but bolted for the door.
    Broughton's expression was difficult to read. Behind his obvious bewilderment, he seemed both concerned and angry.
    “You must forgive Mr. Mills, Miss Woolson,” he said after an awkward moment. “He's devoted to his wife.”
    “So it seems.” I wondered if his wife's poor health was the reason Mills had seemed so preoccupied. But that couldn’t account for his surprising weight loss, or his slightly shabby appearance. Perhaps my initial reaction was correct and he, too, was ill.
    Senator Broughton excused himself, saying he wished to have a word with his wife, who was seated in the group with Henrietta and Mrs. Crocker. I watched as he joined the women and said something that drew laughs, then looked meaningfully at his wife. She flushed, as if her husband had imparted some sort of private message, then quickly stood. Somewhat awkwardly she made her apologies to Mama and the other ladies, after which the Senator bowed, took his wife's arm and led her toward the door. As they crossed the room, I caught a glimpse of his face. It was no longer smiling. And Mrs. Broughton looked embarrassed and near tears.
    “I saw you pumping the old boys for information,” Samuel said, coming up behind me and causing me to jump. “Any luck?”
    “No, but it was probably asking too much to suppose they’d tell me anything useful. Rufus Mills behaved strangely, though. He
    didn’t look well, and he ran out of here as if the place were