A Sense of Entitlement (A Hattie Davish Mystery) by Anna Loan-Wilsey

Author:Anna Loan-Wilsey [Loan-Wilsey, Anna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2014-06-24T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 20

As I passed Glen Park on my way to Ocean Avenue to deliver the last of the invitations, I took the opportunity to call on Mrs. Whitwell again, hoping this time she’d be home. When I rang the bell, the housemaid who’d answered before opened the door. This time I introduced myself and inquired after the housekeeper. Mrs. Johnville and most of the staff had yet to return from church, the maid said. I was disappointed and expected the door to close on me for a second time. I turned to leave.

“You still want to talk to Mrs. Whitwell?” the maid asked.

“Yes, of course, but—” I said, shrugging.

“Madam’s in. Follow me.”

What luck. The maid led me upstairs to a tall, gilded chair in the hall and asked me to wait while she spoke to Mrs. Whitwell. I stared at the swathe of black crape that hung from what I knew was a four-foot-wide gilded mirror opposite me. I was only a few steps from Mr. Whitwell’s office. I lamented that no one had properly searched the room. When I’d been in there, I’d noticed a few correspondences, including the one about the bank, but hadn’t had time or the inclination to do a thorough search. As someone whose livelihood depended in part on the vast amount of correspondence my employers received, I knew I could learn more from the dead man’s papers. Did I dare?

Tick, tick, tick. I glanced around me. The hall was empty. The gentle ticking of a grandfather clock about halfway down reverberating off the marble walls was the only sound. I stood hesitantly, still questioning what I was about to do, and then tiptoed toward the office. Tap, tap, tick, tick, tap. The sound of my footsteps echoed loud in my ears. Given the miles I had to travel today, I’d worn my walking boots, but now I wished I’d worn my slippers. I heard another noise, the far-off closing of a door perhaps, and halted, still on my tiptoes. My heart was beating fast and my breath was shallow. I listened intently, but all was still again. I waited another moment or two before proceeding. I put my hand on the brass doorknob and felt the embossed W press against my sweaty palm. Why was I sneaking about like a thief? Before I could question my actions again, I opened the office door and slipped inside. I looked around the room and thought of the last time I’d seen it. Images flashed through my mind: the crumpled pamphlet clenched in the dead man’s hand, the loose curl that hung down the nape of Mrs. Whitwell’s neck as she rocked over the dead body of her husband, the pink peony hand-painted on the china coffee cup, the blood speckles on everything, the cigar, the carpet, the desk.

“What am I doing?” I said out loud.

I had absolutely no excuse for my presence in this room, none. If I was found here, I would be expelled from the house or worse.

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