She tried to be careful with her reply and not let on how curious she was as to just what he meant by paying well. “Of course,” she said simply, having decided not to ask how much. The amount he volunteered almost staggered her.

“Let’s meet, then,” he suggested. “And please don’t mention that you’re meeting me. I don’t want any of my competitors to get wind that I’m talking to you.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “If anyone asks me,” she said with a laugh, “I’ll just tell them I’m off visiting an aunt.”

“Perfect,” her caller purred.

“Where should we meet?” she asked.

She didn’t bother to jot down the address he gave her. She knew exactly where it was.

“How will I recognize you?” she asked.

“Don’t worry. I’ll recognize you.”

New York City.

Talk about a mass of humanity.

People moved like ants. So many of them. So busy. All in such a hurry.

The mass of people crept and crawled, stopped and flowed. They congregated at street corners. They slid past one another. A light changed; a crossing sign flickered. And they moved in a giant mass, surging forward all at once, each individual following a personal agenda that led them to become a part of the massive back and forth.

Ants.

How many times had he walked in the city, in the country, on a sidewalk, through a house, across a yard, and seen ants? How easy it was—amusing, even—to step on a few and watch the confusion, the panic, of the others, as the instinct for survival took over and became the single thing that made them rush away.

Did one ant really even care when another one was stepped on by the harsh supreme being that walked above? Or did it only care about its own survival?

They were just ants. All of them, just ants.

And there she was.

One of the ants. Walking, stopping, moving again.

Would anyone really notice when she was stepped on by the supreme being above? Would they care?

Or would they just be afraid? Panicking. Scattering. Seeking, searching, running…

Desperate not to be stepped on themselves.

CHAPTER 7

Just as Gen had said, Bennet was in his sixties. Even so, he was as straight as a ramrod, with snow-white hair, with impeccable manners. And he wore a suit, complete with bow tie, to take care of the house.

Except, of course, he didn’t really do the housework. He directed.

And he clearly had a soft spot for Genevieve. That much was evident from the minute he let them into the house.

He had pale eyes, a faded green. Still, they lit up like stars when he saw Gen.

“Miss Genevieve, you’re looking well. Color in your cheeks, flesh on your bones…oh, not too much flesh,” he assured her as he held her hands and looked at her from arms’ length. He let out a sigh. “I’m ever so grateful things went…well, I’m quite grateful you’re still with us, my dear.”

“Thank you, Bennet,” she said softly.

“Not like Thorny,” he said.

Thorny, Joe noted. Interesting.

“And it may be my fault,” Bennet said sadly, shaking his head. Then he stopped, his lean, wrinkled face instantly suspicious, eyes narrowed.

“You brought a friend, I see. And I know who he is,” Bennet said.

Inwardly, Joe winced. It was a lot easier to do his job if no one knew what he was. Oh, well. Too late for that.

He extended a hand. “How do you do? I’m—”

“Lawrence Levine.” Bennet started to say more, but then he drew himself up very straight and said stiffly, “Forgive my rudeness, Miss Genevieve.”

So much for being full enough of himself to think the world knew who he was, Joe thought dryly.

“I’m not Larry Levine,” he told Bennet, his hand still out. “I’m Joe Connolly.”

“Oh.” Bennet returned the handshake. “Sorry.”

“Why did you think I was Larry?”

Bennet shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never met him, but Mr. Bigelow talked about him all the time, so I just thought…” He sighed softly. “God rest his pompous old soul.”

His words surprised Joe.

But Genevieve gave Bennet a light punch in the shoulder and said, “Come on, we all know you loved him.”

“Aye, that I did,” Bennet said, and suddenly the subtle undertone in the man’s accent became clear to Joe. Though he was doing his best to impersonate a very proper English butler, Bennet was actually Irish. Did that mean anything?

Point noted and…

Shelved.

“Have you come to see Mr. Jared?” Bennet asked. “If so, I’m sorry, but he isn’t here. He has his own place, you know. Although I suppose this is his place now, too. And I’m very much hoping he’ll be keeping the house. It’s a fine piece of property, it is.”

“Actually, we’ve come to see you, Mr. Bennet,” Joe said.

The old man looked at Joe again, studying him. “You’re too young to be that reporter. But I have seen your face. You were in the papers, right? All that business with Miss Genevieve, right? You’re that private detective.”

“Yes,” Joe said simply.

“Am I a murder suspect?”

“Of course not,” Genevieve said.

But Joe said, “Sorry, but yes. Everyone associated with Thorne Bigelow has to be a suspect until they can be cleared. I hope you understand that it’s nothing personal.”

“Aye, I do, and God forgive me, but I was right here when it happened.”

“Right here?” Joe asked.

Bennet waved a hand. “Come into the kitchen. It’s my domain for the moment. I’ll put some tea on.”

“Tea sounds lovely, Bennet, thanks so much,” Genevieve said.

A few minutes later, they were seated around the huge butcher-block table in the kitchen. Bennet told them, “Mr. Bigelow’s office is still closed off. I haven’t touched a thing in it. I believe I could now, but…” His voice faded away. Joe couldn’t help but believe that the man had felt a genuine affection for his employer of so many years. “Not even young Jared has had the heart to go in there.”

Joe looked up at the rafters where copper pots and utensils were handsomely displayed. It was a great kitchen, with a big fireplace and every conceivable appliance. Then he poured a teaspoon of sugar into his cup and stirred. “So, Mr. Bennet, you said you were here when it happened?”

“Yes.”

“But you saw and heard nothing?”

“Nothing at all. My apartment is on the third floor, you see. What was once the attic, but it’s been renovated. You’re welcome to come up and see for yourself. Once you shut that door…well, a bomb could go off downstairs, and you wouldn’t know.”

Joe smiled. “I think I know what you mean.”

Bennet stirred his own tea, then shook his head, looking distressed. “I talked to the police at length. Mr. Jared, of course, was distraught, and accused me of horrible things, but he apologized later. And the detectives cleared me. Who knows, maybe they figured I just wasn’t literary enough to pull off something like this.”

“What is your position now?” Joe asked.

“Well, I imagine Mr. Thorne left me something in his will, but who knows? Jared asked that I stay on for now, while he figures out what he wants to do. We’re keeping everything the same. The maids come in each morning still. They just stay away from Mr. Bigelow’s office. And his room,” Bennet added softly. He shrugged. “It was clean when he was killed. The police went through it, of course, looking for any information he might have kept in his personal quarters, rather than his office, but they were very diligent about putting things back as they were, and there’s been no reason for anyone to go back in and clean as yet.”

“How and when did you know something had happened?” Joe asked him.

“I heard Jared screaming.”

“But you said you couldn’t have heard a bomb go off,” Joe said lightly.

Bennet had the grace to offer a rueful smile. “You never heard anything like the way Mr. Jared was screaming when he found his father.”

“So the two got along?”

“Argued like cats and dogs—but they lived for it,” Bennet said. He leaned a little closer to speak more softly, as if they were surrounded by others and might be heard. “I think it was one of those other fellows. Jealous. Those men are fanatics. I mean, take the actor fellow. Don Tracy. He thinks he’s Lawrence Olivier! He and Mr. Bigelow fought all the time whenever they had those Poe meetings here. To be truthful, I think Mr. Bigelow would have loved to be on the stage himself. Half the time, I think he was acting. Or trying to aggravate Mr. Tracy.”

“Mr. Bennet, when was the last time you saw Mr. Bigelow?” Joe asked.

Bennet looked at him oddly. “Well, before the ambulance took him away, of course.”

“I meant, when was the last time you saw him alive?”

“When I picked up his lunch tray that afternoon.”

“And what time was that?”

“Let’s see…I brought lunch up to him around one, and I picked up the tray at about one-thirty.”

“And no one was here until Jared arrived?” Joe asked, knowing the answer but wondering what Bennet would tell him.

“No, no. He was expecting a guest, but he didn’t tell me who it was, and he said I shouldn’t worry, that he’d answer the door himself.”

Good enough, Joe thought. That fit with what the detectives had said.

“And what time did Jared start screaming?” Joe asked. He had the notes on the initial investigation that Raif Green had passed on to him, but it was always interesting to see if the eye witnesses’ memories stayed the same.

“I’d say it was about six-thirty. Somewhere around there. I didn’t actually look at the clock.”

“Someone dialed 9-1-1 immediately, right?” Joe asked.