Murder on Nob Hill by Shirley Tallman Page A

on fire. Oddly, Senator Broughton and his wife left on his heels.”
    “They’d probably had all they could take of Frederick and his mind-numbing party.” He drew out his fob watch. “I wonder how long before I can decently slip out of here myself?”
    “Don’t you dare. Mama would never forgive you.”
    Spying Henrietta walking in our direction, my brother took my arm and drew me into the hall.
    “I spoke to George,” he said, referring to his friend on the police force. “Your client may be in more trouble than you know.”
    My pulse quickened. “Why? What did George say?”
    “The police have discovered she has a lover. An actor by the name of Peter Fowler.”
    Of course! My mind went back to the scene outside Shepard's building the day before and I suddenly understood why Annjenett's friend had seemed so familiar. Just last year I had seen him perform a melodrama at the California Theater.
    “You don’t look surprised.”
    “I saw them together, Samuel. What you’ve just told me explains Annjenett's strange behavior.” I had an awful thought. “What impact will this have on the murder investigation?”
    “For one thing, it supplies a motive. And, of course, the widow is going to have to explain her relationship with Fowler.”
    “Poor Annjenett.” Her behavior had been foolish, but surely not criminal. Of course she’d be ruined socially. A woman might be allowed a discreet affair—if it were circumspect and hidden from the public eye—but society would never accept a scandal involving murder and, even worse, an actor. There were some indiscretions even San Francisco could not forgive.
    “After our talk the other night, I did a little poking around. Do you see that man over there?” Samuel indicated a stout, middle-
    aged man with ruddy cheeks and receding white hair. “That's Thomas Cooke, Annjenett's father.”
    Unobtrusively, I studied the man as my brother went on.
    “Cooke was heavily indebted to Hanaford's bank. Then, after his daughter's marriage, his financial obligations were suddenly forgiven. I doubt it was by coincidence.”
    My eyes flew to my brother, thinking perhaps I had misheard. “Are you implying that Thomas Cooke all but sold his daughter into marriage? How could any father—”
    I stopped, brought up short by a familiar face in the foyer, a face that towered at least half a head above the other guests. “What is he doing here?”
    Samuel followed my gaze. “You know that fellow?” “Unfortunately, yes.”
    Excusing myself, I started toward the door. Even if the man were not so tall, he would have stood out in the present company like an oak tree in a rose garden. He still wore his dark blue daytime frock coat and brown trousers—which, I noted, were sorely in need of pressing—along with a tan waistcoat and an unfortunate necktie that failed to match any other article of his clothing. His face was flushed, as if he had traveled in some haste, and his red hair flew about his head in more disorder than usual.
    “Mr. Campbell,” I said, reaching the foyer. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
    “I have a message for Mr. Shepard,” he said, not bothering with civilities. “I was told he’d be here tonight.”
    “He left some time ago,” I replied, then bristled when the arrogant man craned his neck, looking beyond me into the parlor. “Do you accuse me of lying, sir?” I felt my face flush at his rude behavior. “Do you think that for some nefarious reason we’re hiding Mr. Shepard?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. It's just that I’ve never seen such a display of ostentation beneath one roof.”
    I couldn’t bring myself to admit that, for the most part, I agreed with this pronouncement. “You don’t approve of Society?”
    His eyes raked over the lavish gowns, the diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, the tiaras and ostrich feathers. “I see little to commend fatuous women whose sole purpose in life is to outspend, outdress and outglitter their