Sailing to Capri by Elizabeth Adler Page A

have reason to know it; he looked after them the way the village squires used to in the old days.”
    Montana did not look impressed.
    “Let me tell you this, Montana,” I said, fueled by wine and fear. “It may sound odd to you, but Bob Hardwick was a man of infinite goodness. Ask anyone around here. He was always giving, and without any fuss, without asking for acknowledgment or praise. If someone was in need and he knew about it, he quietly helped out. What he always said was that he’d been there too, at the bottom of the emotional and financial heap. Which is why he understood me. He knew where I was coming from at that low point in my life when I met him, and he helped me without any questions. He just … understood.
That’s
who the real Bob Hardwick was.” I stared hard at Montana. “Nobody would want to kill Bob,” I added. “Nobody!”
    “I hope you’re right.”
    The door opened and Brenda came in to clear our dishes. She brought a platter of cheeses, crackers and grapes, then got the port decanter from the sideboard.
    “Mum’ll bring the coffee in a minute, Miss. I’ll have to be off now, back to my girls.”
    “Thanks, Brenda.” I glanced at the snow still swirling against the windowpanes. “And take care. It’s not getting any better out there.”
    I heard the door close after her. The French enameled clock with the little bronze nymphs holding up the crystal dial ticked loudly and Rats shifted his position on my feet. The room was cozy, quiet, with the lingering smell of roast beef and the aroma of good wine. Warm and dimly lit, it was a good place to be on a stormy winter night, or at least it would have been if Bob had been pouring the port and not Montana. A wave of resentment overcame me. Why did this stranger have to come here, casting these terrible doubts over Bob’s death? Why did it have to snow, leaving me stuck here with him? Any other time I could have told him to get out, but tonight that was impossible.
    I refused the port and instead, with a shaky hand, poured myself another glass of wine. My third. I was counting. Plus a cosmo.
And
on an empty stomach. I told myself I’d better eat something and took a cracker and some of the crumbly local Wensleydale cheese. I said nothing, waiting for Montana’s next move. I had no doubt now I had let the enemy in Bob’s gates.
    Mrs. Wainwright came in with the tray of coffee things. She said good night and left us alone again.
    I felt Montana’s eyes on me. I crumbled the cheese in my fingers. If I put it in my mouth I knew I would choke. Rats slid from under the table. He headed for the door, looking back at me. “I have to let Rats out,” I said, getting up.
    Montana followed me. “He’s just a little guy and the snow’s deep,” he said. “I’d better shovel a place for him.”
    I nodded my thanks, wondering how he could be impervious to the waves of animosity emanating from me, as tangible as the cartoon cloud around Charles Schulz’s Pigpen. He was used to it, I supposed, the big-time P.I. called upon to save billionaires and no doubt making a fortune off them. God knows how much Bob had paid him. And for what? As far as I knew, Bob kept no secrets from me, business or otherwise. Bob was as open about his faults and failures as he was about his triumphs.
    Rats hovered, shivering on the kitchen steps watching as Montana, coatless, shoveled a clearing in the snow. He propped the shovel against the wall, picked up the dog and deposited him in his own icy space.
    Rats sniffed miserably, did the quickest pee on doggie record, and stumpy tail down, skidded back up the steps and into the warm kitchen. Despite my misery, I was forced to laugh.
    We stopped to watch as the dog dragged the old sweater Bob had given him to his usual spot in front of the Aga, turning round and round before finally plumping down on it. The Aga was a wonderful creation: a massive cobalt blue cast-iron stove that emanated a gentle heat and was one of the