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with somebody.”
    She sat up straighter. “You mean you can hear what’s said in there?”
    “Only if they’re talking real loud, havin’ a row, something like that. Otherwise it’s too muffled to make out—but it’s still damnably distracting.”
    “Did you notice if anyone came to see him this afternoon?” Nell asked.
    “Sure. His office door’s got a window on it, just like mine. When I first got here, he was in there with that law sharp that represented Mrs. Kimball.”
    “Orville Pratt?”
    “Yeah, and when Skinner saw me pass by the door, he got up and shut the blinds, like he thought maybe I would have stood there and tried to read his lips. Rat-faced little mutt.”
    “Could you hear anything through the wall?”
    “Nah, they were talkin’ real low. For all I know, it was a perfectly legitimate meeting. Pratt
was
the victim’s lawyer. But it did make me wonder, the way Skinner rushed to shut them blinds. If it was any other lawyer, maybe I wouldn’t feel that way, but Orville Pratt always did rub me wrong. He’s one of the richest men in Boston, you know—in the whole country, probably—so you got to wonder why he chooses to practice law. You ask me, it’s so he’s got a good excuse to throw his weight around. God knows he loves doin’ that.”
    “I know Mr. Pratt,” Nell said. “He’s a good friend of August Hewitt’s. So is his law partner, Leo Thorpe.”
    “The alderman whose son...?”
    “That’s right,” Nell said gravely. She still couldn’t think of Jack Thorpe without a stab of grief. “Jack was engaged to marry Mr. Pratt’s daughter Cecilia when he died, you know.”
    “Oh, yeah, I remember now. It was supposed to be some sort of grand dynastic merger.”
    “Something like that. Poor Jack, he would have been miserable with her. She’s the quintessential spoiled little Brahmin princess, and he was...well, he had his flaws, but he was a thoughtful person. He cared about things, about people.” If he hadn’t, he might still be alive. “He would have been better off with the older daughter, Emily—she’s much more his type—but she was touring Europe at the time.”
    Cook said, “I heard something about Pratt’s daughter and some German nobleman. That would be Emily, then?”
    “No, that was Cecilia, and he’s Austrian. Jack wasn’t even cold when she took up with him. He has some sort of title, and about seven names—I can never remember any of them. He gave her the biggest, gaudiest sapphires you’ve ever seen when they first started keeping company. They announced their engagement at the Pratt’s annual ball this past April” –she paused for effect— “exactly one year to the day from Jack’s funeral.”
    Cook grimaced and shook his head. “Don’t surprise me, knowing the father.”
    “The only people who declined the invitation were Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe. The Pratts’ ball is always the highlight of the spring social season. Funny thing was, Cecilia called off the engagement the very next day. And guess who started courting her almost immediately?” Nell smiled in anticipation of Cook’s reaction.
    He cocked his head as if to ask,
Who?
    “Harry Hewitt.”
    “Good Lord,” Cook exclaimed through incredulous laughter. “That spoiled, insufferable—”
    “The same. It’s a match made in heaven. The only thing they might ever argue about is who’s prettier.”
    Cook chuckled and drained his tea, pondered the empty cup for a moment as if studying his tea leaves, then hauled himself out of his chair. “You sure I can’t pour you some?” he asked as he circled his desk. “There’s plenty in the pot, and it’s good. I made it myself.”
    “No, I’m fine, thank you.”
    When the detective returned to his office from the reception area, he shut the door and, to Nell’s bemusement, closed the blinds.
    “Don’t tell me there’s a lip-reader out there,” she said.
    Cook’s chair whined as he settled his bulk into it. He took a thoughtful