Her brows shot sky-high. “Are you suggesting Mr. Coleman may have committed suicide?”
Mr. Percival shrugged his sharp shoulders. “Wouldn’t be the first time a man succumbed to disillusion.”
Maybe, but that did nothing to explain the disappearance of little Lillibeth. Kit tucked away her notebook and stood. “Thank you, Mr. Percival. You have been most helpful.”
“Not by choice.” He glowered.
Kit stifled a smile. No sense irritating the poor fellow any further. “Oh, one more thing. Where is Mr. Blade’s office? I should like a quick word with him.”
Mr. Percival shook his head. “I’m afraid that is impossible.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Blade is recently deceased.”
Instantly alert, she felt the hairs at the nape of her neck stick out like pins in a cushion. “By what cause?”
Mr. Percival’s dark eyes bored into hers. “Murder.”
Chapter Seven
Who’d have thought a large office complete with prestigious title was the same thing as a millstone hanging from one’s neck? Jackson tugged at his collar as he turned his back on the bank of file cabinets that had yet to be sorted for the report Hammerhead expected in two weeks. No, make that thirteen days. He’d slaved away until midnight yesterday and hardly made any progress. Thunder and turf! It would take a miracle to hit that deadline—especially since the folder he now held in his hand had nothing to do with the paperwork fiasco.
He dropped to his chair and flipped open the records Smitty had pulled on Bellow’s Glassworks. At least this wouldn’t take long. The folder was woefully thin. He scanned the first page, a complaint filed by a disgruntled glassblower who’d been severely burned. Hard to say if his claim of negligence was born of anger over the injury or was truly from disregard for safety on Bellow’s part, for the case never went to court. The man had died.
Jackson flipped to the next page, this one from a neighbouring business. Apparently some stray embers had started a fire on the roof of one of the neighbour’s sheds. The court had ordered Bellow to pay, which he had, and that was the end of it.
He turned to the next—and last—report, submitted by proxy for a Mr. Tippins. Hmm. Odd, that. In all his time on the force, he could think of only one case that had been proposed by proxy. He leaned closer, intrigued by who filed it and why.
And was promptly interrupted by a rap on his door.
“Come back later,” he grumbled. Probably Harvey mewling about eyestrain or some other nonsense.
The door swished open anyway. Blast. Did no one in this station respect his word? “I said—!” He swallowed the rebuke as he glanced up. “Well, this is a surprise.”
Kit strolled in, lovelier than a summer morn. Oh, her hair flopped in a lopsided ponytail and baby drool marred her left shoulder, but that did nothing to quell the stirring of desire deep in his belly whenever she walked into a room.
She sashayed over to him, one brow arched. “I always like to keep you on your toes, Husband.”
“You didn’t last night. As I recall, you kept me pinned to the matt—”
Her lips came down hard, warm, and the same thrill that always heated his blood from her kiss made him hunger for more.
But this was definitely not the time or place.
He set her from him with a grin. “You really can’t get enough of me, can you?”
She laughed as she rounded his desk and took the chair. “Actually, this is a business call.”
He smoothed his moustache, ruffled from her sweet attack. “I sincerely hope you do not conduct your business in such a manner with anyone else, or there will be the devil to pay.”
“I adore it when you are jealous, you know.” Planting her elbows on his desk, she propped her chin on her hands. “Makes your nostrils flare in a most endearing fashion.”
He narrowed his eyes. Flattery—even of such a ridiculous sort—always meant she was up to something. “I hardly think a discussion of my nose is grounds for this visit. What do you want, Wife? And why did you not simply ask me at home over breakfast?” He coughed to cover a snort. That square piece of carbon she’d served him on a plate could hardly be called breakfast even though she’d smeared it with a liberal amount of strawberry jam.
“I wanted to exhaust my contacts first without bothering you, which is how I spent my day yesterday and a good part of this morning. Turns out, though, that there is precious little information on the street about the murder of Mr. Blade.”
“Blade?” The name didn’t sound familiar in the least. “Is this a recent homicide?”
