Free First Gravedigger by Barbara Paul Page B

never personal ones. Speer just didn’t allow personal matters to interfere with the business of dealing.” Then I remembered something. “Peg McAllister was telling me just the other day there was a man here Speer couldn’t stand personally—but Speer had kept him on for ten years because he was so good at his work.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œDon’t know. Peg didn’t tell me that.” And then could have bit my tongue: I just recalled the rest of that conversation. I’d been telling Peg that Speer was out to get me. And now D’Elia would ask Peg, and Peg would remember what we’d been talking about, and …
    â€œWhat about other dealers, competitors?” D’Elia asked. “Any enemies there?”
    But I decided it was my turn to ask a question. “Lieutenant, why are you asking about enemies? Are you saying it wasn’t a burglar who killed him?”
    â€œI’m trying to say as little as possible. This is what police work is, Mr. Sommers. Checking details. We check everything we can think of and then we check some more.”
    It went on like that another fifteen or twenty minutes—the Lieutenant asking for details of matters that had nothing at all to do with Charlie Bates and what had happened Saturday afternoon. I answered him willingly, supplying whatever information he thought he needed. At last he thanked me for my help and said he’d be in touch later.
    June Murray stopped me on my way through the outer office. “Congratulations, Earl. Mrs. Speer told me you were the new acting director. I’m glad.” Big friendly smile.
    Well, well. The percentages were back with me.
    I picked up a cardboard carton from the packing room and headed for my office. When I’d put my personal belongings in the box, I sat down to wait.
    All in all it hadn’t gone too badly—except for that one dumb slip I’d made. Even that might work out all right. Peg just might not remember what we’d been talking about when D’Elia asked her who the ten-year man was that Speer had disliked so much. Or she might be reminded but not say anything. Or maybe I could say something to her—no, better leave it alone. The one other time I’d tried to enlist her aid I hadn’t gotten anywhere. This was one of those times when silence was probably golden.
    It was the middle of the afternoon before June Murray called and said the police had gone and I could move in. I shouldered the cardboard carton and tried not to grin all the way there.
    June helped me put things away. I could tell she wanted to say something but she waited until I was settled before she brought it up. “Lieutenant D’Elia asked me if there was bad feeling between Mr. Speer and any of the agents. I said no.”
    Ah so, the blackmailing began. But this was junior-grade manipulating, June’s specialty—like not letting me go in to see Speer until she’d first told him I was there. No problem. “Good girl, June, I appreciate it. I’ve got enough on my mind without the police finding out Speer and I were at each other’s throats over a piece of Meissen.” Bring it out in the open, Honest Earl Sommers, that’s me. “Get hold of Robin Coulter and tell her I want to see her, will you?”
    June smiled her way out. I leaned back in Amos Speer’s chair and reminded myself to get the lock on the right-hand drawer of the desk fixed. It wasn’t properly a desk at all but a table Speer had used as a desk—American late Sheraton, cherrywood, the apron fitted with drawers. Good piece.
    The phone buzzed. “Robin Coulter’s here,” said June.
    Should I keep her waiting? Naw. “Send her in.”
    Robin Coulter came in and closed the door behind her. She took two steps and stopped, keeping a distance between us. Her eyes were doing their bedroom trick, but her mouth was a straight line.
    â€œUnpack,” I told