I swung up the circular drive in my racy Acura Legend and parked in front. The place looked English country estate with lots of red brick and two stories of multi-pane windows. The carved entrance door was recessed into an arched portico with wide entrance steps. The sky was still overcast with leaden clouds lumbering by on a serious northwest wind. At least the rain had stopped. I pulled the collar of my suede jacket up around my neck, boldly strode to the door like I lived there, and commenced to wrestle with the lock.

I was starting to feel maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I kept looking around like I was expecting someone to come up to me and say “Hey, what do you think you're doing?” Finally, the door clicked open after I had jiggled the key at least a million different directions.

The foyer had an odd pungent smell. Maybe it was the pipe tobacco Albert Lodge favored. He had stroked and stoked his pipe in an orgasmic ritual Saturday morning when I had come to talk over what he wanted done and quote him a price. He had not flinched at the ball park number I tossed out. Good omen for us interior designers. Too bad the guy had to up and die.

My high heel boots clicked on the marble floors, echoing in the stillness. The drawing room was to the left, the library to the right. I headed for the library and stopped at the entrance a little apprehensive about what I might find. I peered around but detected no dead body or other undesirables. All was still, which gave me the willies. I hurried to look for the cell phone. A huge couch stood where Mr. Lodge had fallen. I went around the space like stepping on the spot would be sacrilegious. I ran my hand along the couch seams and cushions, thinking the phone might have dropped there.

“May I help you?” said a proper English voice.

I jumped and emitted an unladylike screech, gripping my chest to forestall a heart attack. I searched for the voice and saw the source standing at the entrance. “Good heavens. You gave me a fright. Who are you?” I managed to croak.

“My name is Hudson. I'm Mr. Lodge's butler. And you?”

He was an Anthony Hopkins look alike reminiscent of the butler in the movie, Remains of the Day, displaying a countenance more curious than stern. I detected a bit of a twinkle in his eye.

“Fiona Marlowe. Mr. Lodge engaged me to redesign the library. I'm the one who found him yesterday.”

“Quite. I've been away. My sister has been ill so I took leave to visit her. I returned when I heard of Mr. Lodge's accident.”

He walked to the window by the desk and opened the heavy velvet green drapes. They were the first things I planned to get rid of. The windows needed something lighter, airier.

“You came Saturday whilst I was gone, I believe,” he said.

“Yes. Mr. Lodge gave me a key so I could work when he wasn't here during the day.”

“He mentioned he had engaged you. I sometimes work in the far reaches of the house and didn't hear you come in since you didn't ring the bell. Are you here to continue working?” He cocked his head to one side like that was a suspect idea.

I smiled without humor. “No, I realize under the circumstances, my work won’t be needed. I misplaced my cell phone. The last time I used it was here, so I came back to look for it. Sorry to impose.”

He walked to the desk and picked up my cell phone.

“Is this it? I found it on the couch when I was tidying up this morning.”

“Thanks so much. I better run. Sorry.” I took the phone, plopped it in my purse and turned to go.

“You don't have to leave. Would you care for tea? We could talk about your plans for the remodel.”

I looked at him like he had just told me I’d won the lottery. “I thought the job would be over since Mr. Lodge. .” My voice failed me, and I looked down at the place on the floor.

“The house will be put up for sale, no doubt, and anything you could do to spruce up the place would only add to the value. Maybe you could look at some of the other rooms.”

“Maybe we should have that cup of tea,” I said.

Hudson led the way to a dining area looking out on the spacious grounds to the back of the house. Spacious was an understatement. A virtual park unfolded across the horizon. In the immediate foreground was an Olympic size pool prime for swimming. A hint of steam rose from the water. Deck chairs were arranged as if a party might break out at any minute. A breakfast nook off the kitchen had a sparkling glass oval table with place for six. Hudson held my chair at the end to afford me the best view of the park.

“I just made a pot of tea. It won’t take me a minute to assemble the tray.”

He stepped smartly around a central island big enough for ten of my kitchen. On a crystal plate he arranged cinnamon rolls that by the smell would have just come from the oven. I wondered who else was coming. Maybe he had a sweet tooth.

He placed silver teapot, cups and saucers on a silver tray and brought the whole shebang to the table. Did I mention he was done up in black suit, crisp white shirt, black tie? Shiny shoes, too.

“Here we are,” he said, placing the intricately carved silver tray between us. Brilliantly polished, might I add. He seated himself across from me and served. Lovely china, probably Waterford. I restrained myself from turning over the saucer to check the imprint.

“Thank you,” I said, accepting a cup and plate with cinnamon bun, heavy on the glaze. My favorite. It had been a while since breakfast.

I took a sip while Hudson served himself. He had crow's feet around disconcertingly pale blue eyes and the makings of jowls. His jacket was of impeccable fit. He sipped his tea with a genteel slurp. He looked up and an engaging smile lit his face.

I gathered my courage and waded in. “Not to rush the subject but who's running the show now?”

“I am,” he said with the engaging smile. His teeth were not perfectly straight which I appreciated after years of looking at the orthodontically correct generation. Crooked teeth were a mark of character in my book.

My raised eyebrow triggered more information.

“Mr. Lodge had every confidence in me. I manage the entire operation of the house, including finances. That's what the modern butler does. The library redesign will be small in terms of my signature authority. Mr. Lodge had already approved it.”

That answered my big question of who had the authority to pay me, if I undertook the rest of the project.

“I see. I don't mean to be nosy but aren't there children or relatives or an executor? I mean this is quite an estate.”

“Mr. Lodge has a older sister who is executor of the estate. She's quite sharp given her age. Mr. and Mrs. Lodge had no children. Mrs. Lodge’s sister and brother live abroad.”

Now we were getting into the good stuff.

“Won't the sister or whoever inherits have a say in how money is spent?”

He patted his lips with linen napkin and frowned. “Ms. Marlowe, I know what I'm doing. You shall be paid for your work. Now shall we discuss your plans for the library?”

On the drive back to my condo, I mulled over what to do. I wasn't convinced that Hudson had the authority to go ahead with the job. What about the sister executor? She could refuse to pay. I didn't like working for nothing, and I didn't want to argue about it. If I were smart, I’d try to get hold of the sister. I bet Jake knew who she was.

I tried my cell phone at a red light. Darn thing didn't work. I had to get to that stack of unopened bills. I needed someone like Hudson badly. Maybe I should hire a butler. Maybe younger, more handsome. Infinite possibilities there.

When I got back to the condo, the answering machine was chirping and the message light was on. I listened to a message from PI Jake. He wanted to meet me for coffee in the morning. I called back on the number he left which he didn't pick up, so I left a message on his answering service that I'd be available after ten in the morning.

He called back. “How about eight?”

I chewed my lip. I rarely got out of bed before nine, but I didn't want this guy to think I was a deadbeat freeloader. “Nine,” I said in a bargaining mood.

I heard him sigh through the phone waves. “All right. Nine.” He hung up. Maybe the autopsy report the family had ordered was back on Albert Lodge.

* * * * *

I showed up at Cafe Francois, a little dive I recommended, around 9:15. I like to be fashionably late. Jake was already there, sitting at a window booth, gripping a cup of coffee. I’d thrown on a pair of pressed designer jeans, black turtleneck, and tan corduroy jacket. The weather was forty degrees and raining which I detest. I love corduroy though. Cafe Francois was like home to me. I walked to the booth and slid in. Jake managed a grunt in greeting.

“Bad night?” I asked.

“Not much sleep.”

“I get those, too.”

Kathy, the waitress, came over. “Coffee, Fiona?” she asked.

“And a cinnamon bun,” I added since I hadn’t bothered with breakfast.

“Haven't seen you in a while,” she said, turning up the coffee cup and pouring. “You been out a town on one of the cushy jobs you pull in?”

I shook my head. “No, I've been working locally. Several weeks ago I went to Honduras to do some work for Mrs. Velasquez, you know, the one I did a lot of work for last year.”

“I remember.” She shook her head. “Some people know how to live. Anything else for you, sir?”

“Just coffee, thanks.”

“Sure, big boy,” she said with a grin. As she sashayed away in the tightest black waitress dress you'd ever want to see, I noticed Jake’s eyes following her retreat. He recovered and stirred an armload of sugar into his coffee.