"Sure," she answered.
She'd assumed Delphine was listening, but her sudden appearance in the hallway startled Lena.
"Oh, hello. Good morning," she said, trying to sound as casual as possible.
"Good morning, Miss Erickson. Ms. Van Horn is on the phone in my office. She'd like to speak to you for a few minutes."
"Oh, of course," said Lena. She glanced at Nash. "Be right back."
Nutmeg did not look pleased to be walking into Delphine's office, but he didn't have a choice. "We'll go outside in a minute, Nutmeg. I need to talk to your mama."
"Line two," said Delphine.
"Thank you." Lena picked up the receiver on Delphine's tidy desk and pressed two. Victoria Van Horn spewed dozens of specific questions about Nutmeg's activities and well-being. Her warm tone and genuine concern about her fur baby made Lena feel like in another reality—where she wasn't an Ashworth and Victoria wasn't a Van Horn—they could actually be friends.
Lena answered all her questions about how much Nutmeg had slept, where he'd played, what toys he'd preferred in the past twenty-four hours, whether his skin seemed itchy or his eyes looked bloodshot, how many treats he'd eaten, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
She left out the part about her fur baby finding a dead body. Victoria Van Horn would have passed out if she ever knew. Nutmeg seemed fine. No reason to worry his mama.
After convincing Victoria that Nutmeg was doing well, she hung up the phone. Delphine had been occupying herself with something on her computer. But when Lena turned to leave, she cleared her throat.
"Miss Erickson," she whispered.
"Yes?"
She nodded toward the hallway. "You don't need to pretend around me. I know what's going on."
Oh, no.Dread slithered down her spine. What did Delphine know? How should she react? Should she race to Nash?
Delphine didn't yell, or attack, or accuse, or whatever Lena was afraid she'd do. Emil's house manager grinned.
"I know about you and Mr. Stone."
"Oh?" What did that mean, exactly?
"I know you spent the night at his apartment last night. The guards told me you left his apartment early this morning." She actually giggled. "That was quick. But I can't blame you. He's very good-looking."
Part of her wanted to correct Delphine's assumptions—because she would never spend a night the way Delphine assumed—but if she corrected her, what would she say? Maybe the assumption was a gift—a bizarre, awkward gift.
"Yeah, well . . . is it against the rules?" asked Lena.
Delphine shrugged. "I've never heard Mr. Van Horn say staff couldn't date each other. I wouldn't worry about it." She giggled again. "By the way, the clothes for the party tomorrow are being chosen by the boutique owner at the Mandeville. A few appropriate choices will be sent over this afternoon. The party is tomorrow at seven, so that gives you plenty of time to try them on."
"Wow, um, thank you."
"Enjoy your walk on the beach," she said with a wink.
Lena felt herself blush. Why was she actually blushing?
Five minutes later, Nutmeg was wildly pleased to be scampering around on the sand. He showed intense interest in every shell or piece of driftwood they walked past. Or tried to walk past. Keeping him moving was a challenge. And when they came upon a dead fish, there was no moving him. So Lena let him sniff for a minute.
"So, I should tell you that Delphine . . . she knows I spent the night at your apartment last night. She said the guards told her they saw me leaving early this morning."
Surprise and concern sprouted all kinds of lines on his forehead. "Really? What else did she say?"
Lena wished it was possible to command her face not to blush, but she could feel the warmth creeping up her cheeks. She'd be a terrible poker player.
"She doesn't suspect we're investigating anything. She didn't bring up anything like that. And she definitely didn't mention . . ." Lena couldn't force the words. "What we found in the flower bed last night. She thinks . . . she thinks you and I are a thing."
