“Thanks,” Kincaid said, then turned to Nash. “I’ll be off, then, Chief Inspector, if there’s nothing else? I’ll be around the house if you should want my advice.” He lifted a hand and left the room before the idea of taking his advice could give Nash apoplexy.
As he crossed the hall his eye fell on the umbrella stand in the entry, a brass bucket with a red-and-green paper print of a hunting scene wrapped around it. Gay red-jacketed riders jumped elongated horses over fences. Before them the hounds ran, then clustered on their quarry. The fox lay dying.
Hannah answered her door quickly, with the air of someone expecting bad tidings. She had taken more pains with her appearance than yesterday, yet the skillfully applied make-up didn’t hide the unnatural pallor of her skin or the shadows under her eyes.
“Duncan.” She spoke his name in a breathless rush. Kincaid caught the same flicker of disappointment in her
A share in death 129
eyes that he imagined he’d seen that first night, as he stood at her table and introduced himself. “What… Is there …”
“No,” he said softly, answering her unspoken question. “There’s no news. I only came to see about you.” And what he could see made him distinctly uneasy.
“Come in, come in. Let me make you some coffee. I was just having some.” Hannah turned abruptly and went into the kitchen, bumping her arm against the counter as she rounded it.
Hannah’s suite, as Kincaid had discovered yesterday, was not the mirror image of his own. The size and placement of the rooms differed slightly, as did the color scheme— dusty pinks rather than dusty greens. Nor had it acquired, as had his, the lived-in look of a near-week’s worth of occupancy. No books or clothes scattered absentmindedly about the sitting room, no dishes left drying on the drainingboard.
Kincaid stood awkwardly in the doorway of the galley kitchen, watching Hannah’s jerky movements, so different from her usual self-contained gestures. Whatever had been troubling her, Kincaid guessed, she had resolved on a course of action and was working herself up to it. “Can I help?” he asked, as Hannah spilled coffee grounds across the counter.
“No. I can manage. Thanks.” She swept the spilled coffee into the filter and put together the small drip pot. “There. Won’t be a sec now.” Hannah’s gaze drifted across Kincaid’s face and away, not meeting his eyes. The coffee pot had not quite finished dripping when she yanked the filter out and splashed coffee into a cup.
