Free Murder on Black Friday by P.B. RYAN Page A

incumbent upon me in my professional capacity to prove that his demise was, indeed, the result of his own doing rather than foul play.”
    Catherine stood looking at Will for a long moment with the same gravely placid expression she’d worn since entering the room. She had her hands clasped at her waist, bisque-white against the stark black of her dress. It was an elegantly simple mourning gown, not merely trimmed in silk crepe, like Becky’s, but entirely fashioned of it, giving it an aura of lavishness despite its understated cut. The white collar and weeping cuffs—the latter nearly a foot long—were made not of muslin, but of crisp, translucent lawn. Something glinted darkly on her breast, in the center—jewelry of some sort. Her only other adornment, such as it was, appeared to be a ring of keys dangling from her belt.
    When Catherine finally spoke, it wasn’t to respond to Will’s statement as to why he was there, but to say, “I don’t suppose, Dr. Hewitt, that you are any relation to Mr. Harry Hewitt of Commonwealth Avenue.”
    Will paused fractionally before saying, “He’s my brother.” While driving over here, he’d ruminated aloud as to whether his connection to Harry would be an asset or a liability in gaining Miss Munro’s cooperation. Did she loathe her late brother’s notoriously loutish best friend, or had she been taken in—as had so many other women—by his looks and the devilish charm he could turn on and off at will? Having met her, Nell would bet it was the former.
    “There is little family resemblance,” Catherine said.
    “Harry takes after our father, who, as you may know, is very fair. I enjoy my mother’s coloring.” In point of fact, the reason Will didn’t look at all like August Hewitt was that he’d been fathered by a different man entirely, several months before his parents’ marriage—a fact that had played no small part, over the years, in deepening the rift between Will and Mr. Hewitt.
    “If I may say so,” Catherine remarked, “you and Harry seem dissimilar in temperament, as well.”
    Will, apparently still unsure of the right tack, hesitated again, so Nell said, “Dr. Hewitt and his brother are as different as two men can be. It’s quite remarkable to me that they share any blood at all.”
    Catherine shifted her gaze to Nell, her expression softening a bit. “Your name is familiar to me, Miss Sweeney. I believe I may have heard something about an engagement?”
    Taken aback, Nell stammered a bit until Will rescued her by saying, “It’s not official yet. As you may know, Miss Sweeney takes care of a little girl, and for now, she feels her duty to Gracie and my mother must take precedent over our marriage.”
    “Most commendable of you,” Catherine told Nell.
    The conversation felt oddly like an interview. As if Catherine had, indeed, judged them and found them suitable, she invited them to sit and offered to ring for coffee, which Nell and Will declined.
    Lowering herself into the chair Will held out for her, Catherine plucked a neatly folded cambric handkerchief from her sleeve and used it to wipe some invisible smudge from the tabletop. She seemed tired, Nell thought, heavy-lidded and a little unfocused, as if they’d awakened her from a nap, which perhaps they had.
    Nell’s gaze lit on the little glinting object she’d noticed before, resting on Catherine Munro’s upper chest. It was a walnut-sized pendant suspended from a gold chain, comprised of scores of little faceted gems in shades of red, pink and purple that formed a floral shape. Odd, Nell thought, that a lady as deferential to mourning customs as Catherine Munro should be seen in such a showy piece of jewelry the very day after her brother’s death; jet or onyx would have been the conventional choice.
    Catherine, having evidently noticed the direction of Nell’s gaze, closed a hand around the bauble, forcing Nell to meet her eyes.
    “My brother gave me this,” she said in that eerily