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“At three-something in the morning?”
“Yes.”
She looked at him, those oh-so-appealing blue eyes filled with concern.
“You actually mean that. Most people who say call anytime don’t actually mean at three-something in the morning.” She gave the hand still holding hers a quick squeeze. “Who are you?”
“I can’t claim I always say what I mean. I’m a goddamn lawyer. But if I tell you to call anytime, I mean it. You were afraid, and had a right to be. You don’t have to be alone.”
“It helps having the dog. I know that’s silly, but—”
“No, it’s not.”
“No,” she agreed, “it’s not. And it helped telling you all of it, and you believing me. Hold on.”
She rose to get her sketch pad.
“I drew them—the midwife, Marianne, everyone I saw.”
He took the sketchbook. “These are great. I didn’t know you could draw like this.”
“I’m much better at graphic art than fine art, but—”
“Don’t diminish your talent,” he murmured, and paged through the sketches. “You’d have a portrait of Hugh Poole in the inventory.”
“There’s a picture of his portrait in the book, and another of Marianne Poole—younger, I think, than she was when she died. But none of Hester Dobbs.”
“And this is her.”
She’d drawn the face from two angles, and another full-length with Dobbs holding up her hand with three rings.
“As close as I could manage.”
“I didn’t imagine she was beautiful.”
“She is—was. Really striking, the black hair, the milk-white face, the dark eyes. Her voice is… throaty. Sultry. She has crazy eyes. I don’t think I quite captured that.”
“Close enough. And this is the mirror?”
“Yes. My father drew it, too. He dreamed about it, my mother told me. He dreamed he saw—it must have been Collin—reflected in it. From boyhood and on.”
“I don’t remember anything like this mirror in inventory, and I think I would. But I’ll check.”
“I did; it isn’t. But I saw it, and my father saw it. So…” She shrugged. “I can’t explain it.”
“Collin never mentioned it, or anything like the room on the third floor. At least not to me. I’ll ask my father.”
He closed the sketchbook.
“Got any plans for dinner?”
“Dinner?” She glanced at the time. “Oh, this has taken a while, hasn’t it? I could toss something together—not like Cleo does, but I can toss something together.”
“So can I, but let’s try this. Let’s go out.”
“Out?”
“You know, to dinner. Where someone with a lot more skill cooks food that you get to pick off a menu. When’s the last time you went out for dinner since you moved in?”
