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“Detective Frank, I’m glad you could make it so early,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Hartley McKay.”
He paused before taking her hand, his grip firm and confident. “Not Hartley Meyer?”
“Technically, yes. But hopefully not for long,” she replied, letting him hold her hand for a second longer before sliding it away. “Are you married, Detective Frank?”
“No. And please, call me Spencer. Titles are so distancing,” he said smoothly. This time he gave her a full-wattage smile, and she had to admit, he was even better looking close up.
“I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me in person,” she said, turning and extending a hand back toward the Manor.
“I’m always happy to assist a beautiful woman in distress,” he replied, his voice laced with innuendo.
Hartley raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eyes. “Distress? How could I be with someone as thorough as you on the case? Shall we go to the library?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just strode to the front door. She paused, and he moved forward, opening the door for her.
“Thank you,” she said, returning his cheeky smile as she walked in. “This way.”
He followed her through the foyer and down the hallway on the left.
“I didn’t get to see much except the upstairs meeting rooms last time I was here,” he said, looking around as they walked. “It’s quite an impressive property.”
“Thank you. It’s meant to be.”
“I understand the previous owners built all of this?” he asked, slowing beside her as she opened the library door.
“They did. Some of it is replica, but they shipped some of it from Europe.” She closed the door after he’d entered. She liked the way he examined the vaulted ceilings and book-lined walls.
“Even all of this?” Spencer asked with a look that said it didn’t impress him.
“Even this. You’re not a reader, Detective?” she asked, sitting in a wingback chair.
He wandered around the room before settling in the chair opposite her. “Not exactly. I’m more aJurassic Parkguy than a Charles Dickens fan.” He leaned forward and gave her a smile that sped up her pulse. “And I thought you were going to call me Spencer. Or Spence, which is what my friends call me. But definitely not Detective. I’m here more as a favor than anything official, so we might as well be friendly.”
She crossed her legs, noticing as his eyes dipped for an appreciative glance before looking back at hers. “I’m gladandsorry to hear that,” she noted.
“I can guess why you’re glad,” he said, giving her a naughty smile. “Why are you sorry?”
“I was hoping you’d be able to help me catch whoever was responsible for the body,” she said, making a pouting face. His slight nostril flare told her the flirtatious comments were working in her favor. “When you emailed me, it sounded like you had some information?”
Spencer nodded, his eyes glinting. “Well, Hartley—can I call you that? Since we’re on friendly terms?”
She shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
“We’ve identified the body as Lawrence Tate, a former employee of the Cavendish Club. However, the cause and manner of death are still unknown. We’re awaiting the full coroner’s report. I got the ID from a friend of a friend in the coroner’s office. The man’s wallet was in his pants.”
“I can confirm Lawrence Tate was an employee here. I don’t want to doubt your…influence, Spencer, but can you guarantee my Cavendish will stay out of any reports?” she asked.
Spencer leaned back in his chair. “Absolutely. Your husband—ex-husband—knows people in the government, who know my supervisors. The official police report on the body described it as being found in an empty lot beside the estate.”
“Were there any other clues where the body was found?” she asked.
“To be fair, Hartley,” he said, letting her name roll off his tongue. “Since this is a clean-up operation, trying to find any clues is moot.”
Hartley’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So there aren’t any leads? Or any likely suspects?”
Spencer hesitated, then leaned in closer. “Off the record, I believe your husband, Montgomery Meyer, may have been the one to actually discover the body.”
Hartley froze, but hid it. “Are you implying something? Monty—Montgomery has his flaws, but I wouldn’t put murder on that list.”
“I talked to… Let me see,” Spencer said, pulling a notepad out of his pocket. “I talked to Ryder Crowley, Fontana Duncan, and a Karol Hardt, who everyone called Jackal.” He looked at her quizzically.
