Andi scowled. “Are you kidding me? I thought we had established that’s the main reason I’m keeping you—not having to make the death announcements myself.”
George laughed. It was a running gag between them—one with so much truth behind it, Andi avoided thinking too much about it.
George raised his hands. “It’s good to know my place in our partnership.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
They left the car. Before they had reached the final step leading to the front door, it opened, revealing the stick-thin body of a woman in a butler’s uniform. She was about Andi’s height, her graying hair swept up in an elegant chignon, her sharp dark eyes dissecting them, and her expression showing she found them wanting.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
To Andi, it sounded more like “Go away and never come back, scum,” but before he could start bristling, George stepped forward, his social smile number four—open but not too bright, indicating polite interest without being invasive—plastered onto his lips.
“I’m Detective George Donovan, and this is my partner, Detective Andrew Hayes. We’re very sorry for the interruption, but we do need to speak with Mrs. McHill about her husband. It’s urgent.”
Andi had been watching the woman closely, trying to get a read on her body language. The way her eyes quickly darted sideways told Andi she did know something, though what that something was, he couldn’t guess. He already knew from the arthropods that there were four other people in the house, two in the kitchen, one in what seemed to be a sunroom, spraying something nasty onto the roses, which the aphids hated, and one in an upstairs room. Nobody was stressed or worried, the silverfish and mites and spiders content. Harry Alexander McHill apparently wasn’t missed. Interesting.
The woman was clearly weighing her options before she made a step back and sideways to let them in. “Please follow me.”
She started marching along the corridor with its tiled floor until they reached an oak door. She opened it and gestured for them to enter. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. I’m going to get Mrs. McHill.”
The butler was gone before either of them could say something. George walked farther into the room with two huge windows looking out into part of the garden—or rather park—and the four armchairs cased in soft blue brocade. The golden tassels at the front of the armrests were a bit over-the-top in Andi’s opinion, as well as the coffee table with the golden inlays.
“What did you pick up on?” George had finished his round through the room, stopped next to one of the armchairs.
“Four more people in the house, no grief or stress, at least not recently. Everything is peaceful, except for the aphids dying in the sunroom right this moment. A serious case of mass murder.”
Curiosity shone in George’s face. “Does it bother you? When they die, I mean.”
Andi thought about it. “Probably not in the way you think. Being linked to something alive means you do feel a sense of loss when it’s gone. Mostly, it’s annoying, because the sensations of them dying are intense, and afterward, there’s a void where the moment before there was so much, and then other images fill the void like a high tide crushing in and I have to adapt again.”
“I’m never sure what to say when you explain these things to me.” George rubbed his hand over his face. “I want to help you and know I can’t. It’s—vexing.”
“Don’t worry. I’m used to it. And you can help me when it gets too much. That’s more than I had before.”
George sighed. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”
Andi didn’t know how to react to this statement and was glad when the door opened to reveal the watchdog, aka the female butler who had brought them to this room. She entered the room, leading a typical Southern lady in. Sophia McHill was around five four, fifty-eight, with a body toned by a strict sports regimen, a face that had seen the help of needles and probably a scalpel, which gave her that eerie aura of looking old while at the same time kind of preserved, perfectly coiffed shoulder-length blond hair, and dressed in an elegant cream A-line dress and pumps, which made her look like part of the interior design.
“Mrs. McHill, these are Detectives George Donovan and Andrew Hayes. Detectives, this is Mrs. McHill.” The butler turned to the woman. “Do you need anything, Mrs. McHill?”
The woman appraised George and Andi with a sharp look, no doubt trying to discern why they were here. Andi didn’t get the feeling she was nervous or unnerved. If he had to guess, he’d say bored, which was probably the reason she hadn’t called her lawyer yet. She shook her head. “Thank you, Christin, that will be all.”
The butler—Christin—left with a nod. It didn’t escape Andi that they weren’t offered anything, not even a glass of water. A not-so-subtle hint how unwelcome they were.
“Detectives, what can I do for you? I’m sure you’re aware how unusual it is for the police to just come over and demand entry.” Sophia McHill’s voice was a pleasing, carefully neutral alto, revealing even less than the Botox mask she had for a face. Her words also made clear how perfectly aware she was that she didn’t have to tell them anything, one of the hassles when dealing with the obscenely rich.
George wasn’t deterred in the least, his manners as polished as always. This time he was using his social smile number two, reserved for women not old enough to be grandmothers and no longer young enough to flirt with, infusing it with just enough wattage to make them feel flattered but well within the boundaries of propriety. Andi loved watching George doing this dance. It was always fun to see a master in action.
“Mrs. McHill, we’re so sorry to inconvenience you, and of course we’re very much aware how inappropriate our visit is, but I’m afraid we bring grave news. Perhaps you want to sit down?” George gently took Sophia’s left arm to guide her toward one of the armchairs, effectively taking charge of the situation. She let it happen, her face still unreadable, her eyes softening a bit in the face of George’s charm. Once she was seated, George took the opposite chair, while Andi kept standing, slightly out of the way to leave George room.
“What is the grave news, Detective Donovan? I have to admit you’re worrying me.”
George schooled his features into an earnest expression. “Yesterday afternoon your husband was found dead in a lake along the Swamp Fox Trail. You have my condolences.”
Andi watched Sophia for her reaction, which was more difficult because of the Botox. The two spiders in the room didn’t catch a flare in pheromones indicating stress. If anything, she was relieved. Her facial expression remained unperturbed; there was only a strange gleam in her eyes Andi couldn’t interpret, especially not with the knowledge he had gained from the spiders. It was all rather strange.
“Oh my. This is sad news.”
