Mourn not your Dead

shoes off, and eat your chips right out of the paper.
    “But this, now”—she gestured at the curve of the terrace—“this is intimate dinner parties after work with wine and just the right gourmet goodies from Fortnum’s. Not exactly conducive to ghosts.”
    “No ghosts,” Kincaid agreed as they turned away and retraced their steps. “We’ll have to try farther afield.”
     
    GEMMA HADN'T EXPECTED TO FIND HERSELF IN DAVID Ogilvie’s office again so soon but this time she pulled out her notebook with a sense of relief and let Kincaid conduct the interview.
    “Do you remember the Stephen Penmaric case?” Kincaid asked, when they had concluded the formalities.
    Ogilvie drew his dark brows together in a puzzled frown. “Claire Gilbert’s first husband? Of course I do. Hadn’t thought of it in years, though.” His smile seemed merely a baring of teeth. “What are you on about? You think Claire had some old flame with a penchant for getting rid of husbands?”
    Kincaid chuckled appreciatively. “It’s as good as anything we’ve come up with so far.” Shifting position slightly, he clasped his hands around his knee and regarded Ogilvie with what Gemma thought of as his getting-down-to-business expression. “I’ve read the files, of course,” he said. “Inconclusive as hell. You were the investigating officer, and you and I both know”—his smile suggested an understood camaraderie—“that the officer in charge of a case can’t put impressions in a report, but that’s exactly what I want from you now. What didn’t you say? What did you think of Claire? Was Stephen Penmaric murdered?”
    David Ogilvie leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together before replying with deliberation. “I think now exactly what I thought then. Stephen Penmaric’s death was a tragic accident. There was nothing in the report because there was nothing to find. You know as well as I do,” he added with evident sarcasm, “the odds for tracing an unwitnessed hit-and-run. And I don’t see how any of this could possibly have any bearing on Alastair Gilbert’s death.”
    “Did Gilbert know Claire Penmaric before her husband’s death?” countered Kincaid.
    “You’re not suggesting that Alastair had anything to do with Penmaric’s death?” Ogilvie’s eyebrows rose in an expression of incredulous surprise. Tufts of hair on the inner edge of the brows grew straight up, giving them an odd, hooked aspect, making Gemma think absently of horns. “Surely, Superintendent, you’re not that desperate. I realize that you’re under some pressure to solve this case, but no one who knew Alastair could possibly think him capable of bending the law to suit his own ends.”
    “Chief Inspector, I’m at liberty to think whatever I like. And I have the advantage of not having known Commander Gilbert well, so that I’m not inclined to let personal opinions cloud my judgment.”
    Gemma looked at Kincaid in surprise. It wasn’t like him to pull rank, but Ogilvie had certainly deserved it.
    Ogilvie’s lips tightened, and although his olive coloring made it difficult to be sure, Gemma thought his cheeks darkened slightly with an angry flush. After a moment, however, he said civilly enough, “You’re quite right, Superintendent. I apologize. Perhaps one should stretch one’s parameters.”
    “I’m trying to form a clear picture of Alastair Gilbert, and I thought it might be helpful to learn a bit of his history. It seemed logical to suppose that he might have met Claire during the investigation of her husband’s death.”
    “Alastair did meet Claire during the course of the investigation,” Ogilvie conceded. “Young, pretty, and very much alone in the world—not many men would have resisted the temptation to offer her comfort and support.”
    “Including Gilbert?”
    Shrugging, Ogilvie answered, “They became friends. More than that I can’t tell you. I’ve never been in the habit of prying into the private lives of my superior officers—or anyone else’s, for that matter. If you want the more intimate details, I’d suggest you ask Claire Gilbert.”
    Gemma glanced at Kincaid, wondering how he would react to Ogilvie’s thinly veiled disdain, but he merely smiled and thanked him.
    They said good-bye, and as they left the building, Gemma said, “I wonder why he dislikes us so much?”
    “Are you feeling paranoid today?” Kincaid gave her a sideways grin as they walked down the steps. “I