Free Hunger by Karen E. Taylor Page B

such a surprise to Gwen and me. I have very few friends and none ever come here to the office. She just jumped to conclusions about who you are. I apologize if she embarrassed you.” I knew it sounded as if I were babbling, but it seemed a good way to cover the nervousness I felt in his presence. “We were just about to leave for the night; had you come a few minutes later you would have found an empty office.” I sat down behind my desk and began to restlessly shuffle papers around. “Sit down, please, and let me know how I can help you.”
    He glanced around the office for a few seconds. “Thank you,” he said, sitting down, then abruptly, “Who died?”
    I stiffened at his question, until I saw he was studying the flowers. “It is a bit excessive, isn’t it?” I said with a small laugh, but supplied no further information. “Now, I hate to be rude, but it has been a long week and I am very tired. Can we get on with it?”
    â€œGet on with it?”
    â€œYes, get on with it. Ask me your questions and then let me get out of here.”
    â€œWell,” he began with infuriating slowness, “there is one very important question I’d like you to answer. Are you hungry?”
    â€œHungry?” What was he getting at? “Actually, I have been so busy this week, I can hardly remember my last meal. So, now that you mention it, yes, I am very hungry. Why do you ask?” His line of questioning worried me; there was no way for him to know of my habits and yet he was so unnerving. I rose from the desk and walked across the room to the flowers. Absently, I plucked a few of the drooping blooms, showering the credenza with a flood of scarlet petals.
    He began to laugh. “No wonder you have so few friends, Miss Griffin. Don’t you recognize a dinner invitation when you get one?” His face was lit with a mischievous smile and I could see that he was enjoying the situation.
    His grin was infectious and I found myself smiling back. “Actually, I get very few dinner invitations and accept even fewer, so I never know how to react to them.” I hesitated for a while; if this was a friendly gesture on his part, it would do no harm. If it was part of his investigation, still I could get more details on the progress of the case from him than from anyone else. He could be an invaluable help in tracking the murderer for me. “Yes,” I replied at last, “I would like to have dinner with you. And since I assume you are not on official business, please call me Deirdre.”
    â€œFine, if you’ll drop the detective and call me Mitch. What would you like to eat? I know a place not far from here that’s wonderful. Nothing fancy, but they serve good steaks and some seafood.” He looked at me for my approval.
    â€œA nice rare steak would be great for me. Just let me freshen up a bit and we can go.”
    Â 
    As we rode the elevator, I wondered what on earth possessed me to accept the invitation. There was something about Mitch that intrigued me, but I was hardly in any position to begin or pursue a relationship with anyone. And my idea of a dinner date hardly coincided with his. But as the doors opened into the lobby and I met his eyes and matched his smile, I felt strangely content with the situation.
    A car was parked at the curb, a rather dingy sedan of indeterminate color, but unmistakably his, as the placard in the window proudly proclaimed “Official Police Business”.
    â€œBusiness?” I questioned, giving him a sidelong glance as he opened the door.
    â€œWell, no . . . I forgot to take it out of the window. Besides,” he said wryly, tossing the sign into the back seat, “it was easier than finding a parking spot.”
    â€œNot above the law are you, Detective? While it may not be as serious a crime as some, illegal parking is still . . .” I mimicked the tone he took as our last meeting and he