At the Drop of a Hat Read online

  I was only a couple of months into my “no men” lifestyle, which was hardly anything to brag about at this juncture. My cousin Viv, however, seemed to be a master at it. As far as I knew, she hadn’t been involved with anyone in years. At first I had thought she and Harrison had a thing, but no. They were best buds but that was it.

  It certainly wasn’t for lack of male attention. I had seen several men over the past few weeks show a marked interest in Viv, and while she was always charming and polite, she was also aloof and impossible to pin down. I think she managed to get away with it without hurting anyone’s feelings because, well, she’s beautiful, but also she plays the mad hatter part, marching a bit too much to her own drummer for regular guys to manage.

  “What are you thinking?” Harrison asked me. “Have you solved the how and whys of Russo’s fall to his death?”

  “Actually, I was thinking about Viv,” I said. “I have yet to figure out why she’s been so steadfastly single over the past few years. Every time I think she’s going to tell me what’s going on, she wriggles off my hook like a very crafty fish.”

  “Viv as a fish,” Harrison said. “I don’t think she’d thank you for that comparison.”

  I laughed and Harrison grinned. We leaned close to each other in the way of friends but, yeah, there was definitely the same spark of attraction between us. Then my stomach gave a rumble that sounded over the rain on the window and the engine of the bus. Harrison frowned.

  “Up, up, let’s go,” he said.

  “What?” I asked.

  The bus was still in motion. Harrison didn’t care but took my hand and led me down the stairs to stand by the door. The bus pulled over and I noted we were on Bayswater Road on the north end of Hyde Park.

  “Let’s go grab a bite,” he said. As if sensing I was going to argue, he added, “The shop will be fine. They ran it before without you; surely they can manage one day.”

  I would have argued but I was too hungry. The rain was pelting down hard. Harrison grabbed my hand in his and we ran down the wide sidewalk until we came to a crosswalk.

  As soon as the signal changed, we dashed across the street to a large two-story white building tucked under some very large trees. The Swan, an old coaching inn turned pub, beckoned us inside with a dry warmth that felt like a welcoming hug.

  As the door shut behind me, I turned to look at Harrison to assess the damage. He looked like I felt, as if I had swum there. Water was dripping off his nose, his jacket was drenched and together we were forming a small puddle around our feet.

  The place was packed and I figured we’d have to wait for a table to open up. Harrison must have been thinking the same because he looked at me and said, “I’m pretty sure they’ll let us have a table out on the patio.”

  I laughed at him. The smell of food cooking hit me low and I said, “I’ll eat standing up so long as they feed me.”

  He glanced over my head while I tried to ring the excess water out of my hair.

  “Table open,” he cried and he grabbed my hand and led me over to a small table in a dark corner. Thankfully, the warmth of the pub was bringing back the feeling in the tips of my fingers.

  “Do you see anything you fancy?” he asked.

  He gestured to the large board on the wall over the bar. I saw that today’s special was beef stew in a bowl of Yorkshire pudding. No need to look at anything else.

  “I’ll have the special,” I said.

  “Sounds good,” he agreed. “A Fuller’s, too?”

  I nodded. I’d had a rough morning. Surely, I deserved a pint with my lunch. I opened my purse but Harrison waved me away.

  “It’s on me,” he said. Ordering drinks and food took place at the bar, so I stayed in my seat and waited.

  I watched as a waiter walked by carrying food up the short stairs to the diners above, fish and chips and bangers and mash, and it all looked so good I could have tackled the poor guy and swiped the food.

  Harrison came back and placed my pint in front of me. He also set down a wooden spoon with the number 21 scrawled on it.

  “That’s our order number,” he explained. “They deliver your food by the number.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  More food went by—two shepherd’s pies—and I turned my head to watch them go.

  “All right, Ginger?”

  I turned back to Harrison. I could feel my lower lip pooch out in a pout that I was unable to stop.

  “Crazy hungry,” I said.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Harrison said.

  “Read any good books lately?” I asked.

  “Why Nations Fail,” he said. “It’s about—”

  “Politics and money,” I interrupted. “Any good gossip in there?”

  “Such as?” he asked, looking amused.

  “Did two wives of opposing nations wear the same dress to a global event and spark a war?” I asked. I was teasing him, but seriously, I knew people in the fashion industry who would not think that was out of line in the least.

  He laughed. “Er, no.”

  “Not my cup of tea then,” I said. “How about movies?”

  “Movies are a date sort of thing,” he said with a shake of his head.

  Now he had my attention. Movies were for dating? And he hadn’t seen any? Did that mean he wasn’t dating? Not at all? I mean, I knew he had made some comment about waiting until I was back in the dating game, but we were looking at the better part of a year to go and I really didn’t think he would go that long without asking someone out.

  I needed more information but how to get it? I took a long slow sip of my beer while I mulled it over. I didn’t want to be too blunt and ask straight out if he was waiting for me, because there was no way I could ask that without sounding full of myself.

  I ran my fingers through my hair in an effort to help it air dry. I tossed it over my shoulder and then fixed my gaze on him. He was watching me but his expression was inscrutable.

  “So if you don’t watch movies with your dates, what do you do?” I asked.

  Yeah, I might have wanted to put a little more thought into that question. His eyebrows rose and he propped his chin in his hand and studied me across the table.

  “That didn’t come out nearly as cleverly as I thought it would,” I confessed.

  Under his green gaze, I could feel an embarrassed warmth heat up my face, which was disconcerting because that sort of thing never happened to me. I was the queen of meaningless flirtatious banter; what was happening to my glib tongue? Then again, I had seen a dead body just a few hours before, so I wasn’t at my best.

  “Now I’m in a quandary,” he said. “I can think of a whole host of answers to your question but I’m not quite sure they’re appropriate lunch conversation.”

  Now what was that supposed to mean? Was he dating? What was he doing on his dates? All sorts of images of Harry in various states of debauchery flitted through my head. I opened my mouth to interrogate him right as the waiter set my beef stew down in front of me.

  Harrison smiled at me and I knew that he had seen the waiter coming and had said what he did just to be provoking. The truth made me smile. I was well matched in Harrison Wentworth.

  I put my napkin in my lap and tucked into my beef stew. It was the finest meal I had ever eaten in my life. Okay, yes, I was starving, but still the Yorkshire pudding with beef stew was amazing. I could have written a poem to its deliciousness. We didn’t talk for the rest of the meal, and I realized Harrison must have been as hungry as I was.

  The rain let up and Harrison walked me to Lancaster Gate, where I caught the train back to Notting Hill, and he headed off to a business meeting in East London. Once on the train, I wondered how Ariana was doing. I supposed it was inappropriate of me to think it, but since I never got to ask her if she wanted us to refurbish the hat or not, I r
ealized my entire day had been for nothing.

  Well, not completely nothing. I did have a very nice lunch with Harrison. I was walking up the steps out of Notting Hill Gate when I froze in place. Oh, no! Harrison had bought lunch and I had let him. Did that constitute a date?

  A man slammed into me from behind, knocking me up the next step and getting me back in motion.

  “Sorry, Miss,” he said as he hurried around me and out of the hole in the ground.

  As I strode toward the shop, I pondered all of the things that made it a date and all of the things that made it not a date. I was leaning pretty much in the not date direction when I passed by my friend Andre’s art studio. I peeked inside and saw him handing a big, brown wrapped package to an older couple.

  Since the shop was empty aside from them, I pulled the handle on the door and entered. Surely, ten more minutes away from the shop would not make a difference.

  The couple passed me on their way out and we all smiled at one another in the greeting of strangers who’d most likely never see each other again but wanted to be considered pleasant regardless of the lack of a future relationship.

  “Scarlett, what brings you here?” Andre asked.

  He opened his arms wide and we hugged and gave each other an air kiss on each cheek.

  “I’m in crisis,” I said.

  Andre’s eyes went wide and he gestured for me to sit down on his very unforgiving modern furniture. It was pewter gray and as hard as granite. It did not encourage lingering.

  I took a seat and said, “I’m not sure but I think I had a date with Harrison.”

  “No!” Andre gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth.

  Chapter 9

  He looked at me in shock, and I nodded and said, “I know!”

  Then he frowned. “Wait. How do you not know if it was a date?”

  “Well, it was after we left the police station—”

  “What?” he cried. “Why were you at a police station?”

  “Because of the dead body—”

  This time he interrupted me with a scream.

  “Scarlett Parker, that is not funny!” he said.

  “I’m not joking,” I said. “I went to see Ariana Jackson about the estimate for her bridal hat, and when I got there, she was crouched beside the body of her boss, Anthony Russo, and he was dead.”

  Andre blinked at me. He didn’t yelp, or cry, or scream. He just sat there, blinking.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I think I might be in shock,” he said.

  “I know. I spent most of the day like that,” I said. “And poor Ariana is a wreck. Would you like some tea or a glass of water?”

  “Sparkling water, please,” he said.

  He sat unmoving while I walked over to the wet bar they had installed in a corner of the studio. I opened up his mini refrigerator and grabbed one of the little bottles of Badoit carbonated water, to which I knew he was partial.

  “Glass?” I asked.

  He shook his head and I twisted off the top and handed him the bottle without a glass. He downed about a third of it before he lowered the bottle and let out a delicate burp.

  “Beg pardon,” he said.

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “I can’t believe Anthony Russo is dead,” he said. “The tabloids are going to go mental.”

  “They hadn’t gotten wind of it when we left the scene and no one showed up at the station,” I said. “Must be a busy news day.”

  “Perhaps, but when they do catch the scent, it is going to be ugly,” Andre said. “How did he die? Drug overdose? Alcoholic coma? Stabbed by a jilted lover?”

  “He fell off the roof of his building,” I said. “Splat.”

  Andre gasped. “And you saw him?”

  “Only afterwards. It was pretty awful,” I said. I shivered as if I could shake off the image of his squashed melon, but no. I had a feeling it was imprinted on my brain and would likely come a-calling in the wee hours of the morning when I couldn’t sleep.

  Andre threw an arm around me and hugged me close. “Oh, Scarlett, love, I’m so sorry, but I’m also terribly grateful.”

  “Grateful?” I reared back to stare at him.

  “That for once I wasn’t with you when you found the body,” he said.

  It was true. Andre was sort of my dead body buddy, having stumbled upon two corpses with me in the past.

  “You’re welcome,” I said. I wasn’t sure that was the most appropriate response but in this situation was there a proper thing to say? Darned if I knew.

  “How did he fall?” Andre asked. “And what was he doing up on the roof?”

  “No idea,” I said. “And if the police have a clue, they’re keeping it to themselves. Harrison and I kicked around the possibilities over lunch, but we didn’t come up with anything for sure.”

  “Ah, yes, Harrison,” he said. He leaned back and studied me through narrowed eyes. “I’m going to assume your preoccupation with whether lunch with Harrison was a date or not was part of some crazy coping mechanism over seeing Russo . . .”

  “Dead,” I said when his voice trailed off.

  He nodded, obviously relieved not to have to say it.

  “Maybe,” I said. I definitely appreciated the thought as it made me seem less shallow. “But I am worried that lunch was a date. It can’t be a date. I made a vow, a commitment to singledom, that I take very seriously.”

  “Well, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Andre said. “Probably, Harrison was just being kind and buying you lunch because you were in a strop.”

  “I was not in a bad mood,” I protested. “And forgive me, but Harrison and kind don’t exactly go together in my head.”

  “No, I imagine when you think of Harrison, it’s more along the lines of a top shag.”

  Now it was my turn to gasp and give him my most outraged expression.

  “I have absolutely no interest in Harrison in that way whatsoever,” I lied.

  “Oh, stop, you’re embarrassing yourself,” Andre said. “You two practically light the room on fire when you’re in it together. And just so you know, you and Harrison may have a wager on who will win The Great British Bake Off, the ferret or the dreamy blue eyes, but Nick and I have a bet on when exactly you two will get together.”

  “What?” I cried. “But I’m not dating anyone for at least another eight to nine months, and by then, Harrison will probably be engaged to someone else.”

  “No, he won’t.”

  Andre said it so confidently that I wondered if he knew something I didn’t know. I knew I should pretend not to care but my curiosity got the better of me.

  “What do you know?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Andre said. He tipped the bottle of water, finishing it.

  “Aw, come on,” I said. “You’re holding out on me. I’d hate to have to call Nick at his office and tell him all about Russo, thus denying you the pleasure of a good tell-all.”

  “Scarlett, I am shocked,” Andre protested. “That you would think that I would be so heartless as to look forward to gossiping about a poor man’s death, well, I . . .”

  I pulled out my phone and started thumbing through the contacts until Nick’s name appeared. Andre peeked over my shoulder. I pressed Nick’s name to bring up his information. When his number appeared, I moved my thumb to press the phone icon and place the call.

  “Wait!” Andre cried before I hit Send. “All right, fine, I do want to be the one to tell Nick what happened today. Can you blame me? It’s a tasty bit of goss, although I do feel quite horrible about the poor man’s death.”

  “Of course,” I said. “It’s a horrible tragedy for a man to lose his life like that.”

  We were both silent for a moment. I wasn’t sure how long our moment of silence lasted but Andre finally heaved
a sigh and said, “All right. Have I repented enough for being a heartless bastard?”

  “It’ll do,” I said. “Now tell me what you know.”

  “And you won’t call Nick?” he haggled.

  “No, I won’t,” I said.

  “I really don’t know anything,” he said. “Except Nick and I both agree that Harrison is totally smitten with you. You should see how he looks at you. I don’t think his twelve-year-old boy has ever gotten over his crush on your ten-year-old girl.”

  “Aw,” I said. “That is so sweet, but that’s terrible. Then today’s lunch probably was a date. I’m ruined, Andre, ruined.”

  “Don’t panic,” Andre said. “If you play it off as two friends having lunch, then that’s what it is.”

  “You think?” I asked. I really did not want to have to deal with things being awkward between Harrison and me.

  “Yes, besides, once you get over your transference and start focusing on what’s really bothering you, the dead body, then all of this will be beside the point.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said. I glanced out the window. It was raining again.

  “Can I borrow an umbrella?” I asked. “I really need to get back to the shop before Viv sends out a search party.”

  “Of course,” he said. “There are several in the stand. Pick whichever strikes your fancy.”

  Andre walked me to the door and I grabbed a bright pink umbrella out of the batch.

  “Yours or Nick’s?” I asked.

  “Would I be caught dead in that shade of pink?”

  “Right, so it’s Nick’s.” I smiled. “Tell him I will return it promptly.”

  Andre studied me closely for a moment. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “No,” I admitted. “But I will be.”

  Andre gave me a quick hug then pushed open the door for me and I popped the umbrella up as I stepped out. The wind had picked up and was pelting the rain at an angle. I tipped the umbrella to get the most coverage possible but my ankles and shoes were still soaked.

  “Bloody hell,” I muttered. I was beginning to feel more like a resident than a visitor and the cursing helped my mood.