The Semi-Sweet Hereafter by Colette London Page A

constable had described the scenario to me. It all sounded so cold-blooded.
    Necessary, of course, in light of the circumstances. But I still wished everyone could have been spared the investigation.
    â€œShe’s very impressive, isn’t she?” I interrupted, lapsing into Phoebespeak before I could stop myself. “I don’t know where some people get such a sense of authority and command.”
    â€œIt’s called breeding,” Phoebe sniffed. “And education.”
    Her haughty tone stopped us both cold. Evidently realizing (too late) that she wasn’t conversing with one of her snobby friends—who would understand “breeding,” of course—Phoebe blinked at me. I guessed maybe we weren’t destined to be pals, after all. She seemed to view me as the hired help. That’s it.
    â€œI’ll have a friend staying with me in the guesthouse for a few days.” I decided to take advantage of the situation. Even if it didn’t show, Phoebe must have felt a modicum of embarrassment to have spoken to me that way. “You don’t mind, do you?”
    Just as I’d anticipated. A headshake. “Of course not.”
    And that’s how I secured lodgings for myself and for Danny, during Wimbledon, in one of the busiest cities in the world. I’d wondered if Phoebe might object to my having a guest, but now I’d handily leveraged my way out of that delicate situation.
    Yay, me. Now all I had to do was catch a killer.
    * * *
    Later that day, with Phoebe’s craving for a greasy fry-up temporarily (and deliciously) assuaged, I slipped out to a nearby Italian-style café to meet with Jeremy’s assistant. I wanted to return her things, of course—the box of knickknacks, the London Eye mug, the laptop computer, and the cell phone, which I’d used to ask one of Nicola’s friends to have her contact me to make meeting arrangements—but more than that, I wanted to speak with her. I hoped Nicola Mitchell could shed some light on Jeremy. The man. The myth.
    â€œThe arsehole!” Nicola blurted, having navigated down the narrow stairs to the café’s lower level, where I’d waited with the box and everything else. I’d admired her ability to do so while carrying a tray full of mocha frappé latte, a slice of Limoncello mascarpone cake, a cookie, a cello pack of almond biscotti, and a diminutive shortbread fruit tart. All just for her. “I’m sorry, but he really was insufferable to work for.”
    She shook her head and forked up an angry mouthful of cake. Tall, angular, and possessed of a headful of curly auburn hair, Nicola was twenty-five at most and not at all mousy. Not now.
    â€œJeremy Wright was a bully, plain and simple.” She glanced at the cafégoers enjoying Milanese hot chocolate and Loacker wafers nearby, then lowered her voice. Her gaze met mine, full of unequivocal certainty. “If Jeremy got his way, he was fine. If he didn’t, you’d better run and hide. He was a complete egomaniac!” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t even get me started.”
    â€œAll I said was, ‘have you worked for Jeremy long?’ ”
    â€œI know. I’m sorry. But grrrr!” Nicola stabbed up more cake. I felt sorry for that beleaguered slice. “When he picked me to work for him—just for him, I mean, not at the restaurant—”
    Aha. She must be a former server. That’s how she’d managed to carry that loaded tray with such agility. Most people couldn’t do the same. Which didn’t explain why nearly everything in a quick-service environment in the U.K. was presented that way. Tea, coffee, cake slices, scones—they all came served on a tray.
    It was a uniquely English thing. Just like queuing, a lack of eye contact on the Tube, and enthusiasm for old-world outdoor Christmas markets stocked for the holidays with carnival rides, mulled wine, and music.