“Not pestering me, no. I was—” Anne bit her lip. “I just didn’t like him.”
“Had you known him long?”
“Not very long. I’m in the office and he was outside. I met him, I don’t know, maybe three months ago.”
“Did your father know him?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think they ever met. Father was — had left before Harry came to work there. Harry used to work on the Hewitt estate on the other side of Richdale.”
“So I understand. Do you know why he quit?”
“No, I didn’t know him then.”
“Have you any idea who killed him?”
“No,” she said.
I lifted a brow, not ostentatiously. She said it too quick and she shaded it wrong. There was enough change in tempo and tone to make it at least ten to one that she was telling a whopper. That was bad. Up to that everything had been wholesome and straightforward, and all of a sudden without any warning that big fly plopped in the milk. I cocked an eye at Fred, and of course he hadn’t caught it. But Wolfe had. His eyes had gone nearly shut.