“We have to talk now.” He pushed up the sleeves of his linen jacket.

“I’m off to meet a client,” she said as she glanced at her wristwatch. “I can try to see you at two thirty.”

He tapped his elegantly shod foot as red blotches of annoyance cropped up on his cheeks. He shot a quick glance at me, then said to Helen, “I’m meeting with the president of King’s College at two and will be tied up all afternoon.”

Well, la-di-da. Was he trying to impress me?

“I’m sorry, Martin,” she said, but she didn’t sound at all remorseful. “Maybe tomorrow.”

His face puckered up as though he’d bitten into a lemon; then he flashed me a venomous look as if it were my fault his wife was insolent. “I can see you’re in a mood. I’ll speak with you later this afternoon.”

We both watched him stalk away.

“Gosh, I’ve put you in a mood,” I said, using air quotes as I tried to lighten the moment. “Sorry.”

“Yes, it’s all your fault.” She shook her head and tried to laugh. “What a pill.”

“You handled him well.”

“I’ve had some practice,” she said. “He makes it hard to be nice. Now, where were we? Oh, the ghost tour. Please say you’ll come?”

“Definitely. It sounds like fun.”

“Wonderful. I’ll add your name to the reservations.”

“Great.” We arranged a time and place to meet. Then she gave me a hug and took off, leaving me with a decision to make. It would be smart to take a nap, because I was starting to feel dizzy and sleep deprived, but I wanted to see and breathe in a bit of the city first.

I headed for the wide double doors but spied a sundries store tucked into the far corner of the lobby. I made the detour, walked in and found a candy bar for sustenance and a pack of cinnamon gum for clean breath. As I stepped up to the counter to pay, a tall, heavyset man pushed me aside, slapping a newspaper on the counter and reaching in his pocket for change.