It was a large high-ceilinged living room, more than fully furnished, the dominant colors of its drapes and upholstery and rugs being yellow, violet, light green, and maroon — at least that was the impression gained from a glance around. A touch of black was supplied by the dress of the woman who moved to meet me as I approached. The black was becoming to her, with her ash-blond hair gathered into a bun at the back, her clear blue eyes, and her pale carefully tended skin. She didn’t offer a hand, but her expression was not hostile.
“Mrs. Horan?” I inquired.
She nodded. “My husband will be furious at me for seeing you, but I was simply too curious. Of course I should be sure — you are the Archie Goodwin that works for Nero Wolfe?”
I got a card from my wallet and handed it to her, and she held it at an angle for better light. Then she widened her eyes at me. “But I don’t— ‘To discuss what Mrs. Fromm told Mr. Wolfe’? With me? Why with me?”
“Because you’re Mrs. Dennis Horan.”
“Yes, I am, of course.” Her tone implied that that angle hadn’t occurred to her. “My husband will be furious!”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Perhaps we might sit over by a window? This is rather private.”
“Certainly.” She turned and found a way among pieces of furniture, and I followed. She took a chair at the far end near a window, and I moved one over close enough to make it cozy.
“You know,” she said, “this is the most dreadful thing. The most dreadful. Laura Fromm was such a fine person.” She might have used the same tone and expression to tell me she liked the way I had my hair cut. She added, “Did you know her well?”
“No, I saw her only once, last Friday when she came to consult Mr. Wolfe.”