Over Butler’s protests, I phoned Hilary, but she was gone for the Independence Day holiday, too, according to Harry. At least, he wasn’t with her. I knew better than to bother Hilary Thursday morning. Promptly at noon, I rang the bell and insisted that she see me. Harry looked dubious, but he went back to her room and rapped on the bedroom door. Butler and I sat uncomfortably and waited for her to come out. Harry returned and said she didn’t want to see me. “She won’t be able to help it,” I said, “unless she stays in her room all day. We’re not budging.” She appeared ten minutes later. When she saw us, she turned to Harry, one eyebrow arched, and asked why we were still there. “Because he couldn’t help it,” I said. “We have to talk to you.” “About what?” “Wayne Poe’s death.” She nodded. “Yes. He definitely is dead. What else did you want to talk about?” “Who killed him.” “Who did not kill him,” she replied, smiling frostily. “Who is on first.”
