Sinking into enormous silk-upholstered chairs, Baker and Lamar drank the best lemonade they’d ever tasted and took in the room. Fifty feet long by half as much wide, with high coved ceilings not much simpler than those in the Hermitage lobby. Stiff arrangements of gleaming, curvy-legged wood tables, delicate chairs and high-back French provincial couches shared space with realistic, soft seating. The walls were pale green silk hung with gilt-framed paintings of still lifes and country scenes. The stone fireplace at the far end was big enough to walk into. A few color photos rested on the carved mantel.

Lamar said he loved the lemonade.

Cathy Poulson said, “It’s amazing, isn’t it? The key is to use Meyer lemons along with the regular kind. Gives it a bit more sweetness. My husband taught me that. He was originally from California. Fallbrook, that’s down near San Diego. His family grew citrus and avocado. A drought and some bad investments wiped them out completely. Lloyd had to start all over by himself and he was successful beyond belief. He died six months ago. He was a wonderful man.”

She got up, walked to the mantel, fetched one of the photos and brought it back.

It looked like some sort of charity ball shot, where rich folk pose for photographers as they enter a fancy room. Cathy Poulson stood next to a short, thick, balding man with curly white hair fringing his ears. Red designer gown for her- same color as her car- tux for him. Lloyd Poulson’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. His pudgy fingertips were visible around his wife’s wasp waist.

He wore thick-lensed, black-framed glasses and had a gut that swelled his cummerbund, appeared to be at least seventy. Cathy Poulson looked like a movie star in the photo. Plenty of jewelry that night- diamonds at every strategic location. The bodice of her red gown was low-cut enough to expose a big, soft expanse of swelling breast. Perfect cleavage, thought Lamar. You’d never know to look at her in the sweater.

“Such a vital man,” she said with a sigh. “Prostate cancer. There was pain but he never complained.”

“Sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

Cathy Poulson picked invisible lint from her sweater, reached for the photo, placed it faceup on her lap. “Sorry to bore you with my personal problems. You’ve got important work to do and you want to know why I was talking to Jack the night before last.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“First off,” she said, “it’s pretty obvious that I wasn’t trying to hide anything. You don’t go into that neighborhood with a car like mine, park right out in front, if you’re worried about being seen.” She tapped the photo. “Who saw me, that girl?”

“Which girl?”

“A little blond girl, I assumed she was a waitress or something like that. She and a Mexican were the only ones left in the place. I saw her watching Jack and me from the doorway.”

“Spying?” said Baker.

“Probably, but trying hard not to show it,” said Cathy Poulson. “Unable to resist, I suppose. Which is understandable, given how famous Jack is. Was.”

She bit her lip.

“I found out about it this morning. Like everyone else. Drinking my morning coffee and reading the paper and there it was.” Her eyelids quivered. “I went into the bathroom and was completely sick.”

“You knew about the murder but you acted surprised when we showed up,” said Baker.

Cathy Poulson blinked. “Pardon?”

“That remark about fund-raising?”

The woman blushed. “That was stupid and snobbish, Detective. Please forgive me. I guess I- I don’t know why I said that. I certainly wasn’t surprised that you showed up. I knew that girl had seen me and if she told you, you’d probably trace me through my car. And of course you’d want to talk to me. I might have been the last person to see Jack before he- was I?”

“So far, that’s the case, ma’am.”

“Well, that’s horrible. Repugnant and horrible.”

Neither detective spoke.

Cathy Poulson said, “Did the girl tell you that Jack and I didn’t leave together? That I drove off and that he stayed behind?”

“No, ma’am,” Lamar answered.

“Well, that’s what happened. So it’s obvious I’m not your culprit.” Smiling and aiming for levity, but one hand clawed a white-trousered knee.

Baker said, “Why’d you go down to The T House to talk to Mr. Jeffries?”

“He chose it, said it was off the beaten path…how right he was. I knew it was a dump, but Jack could get insistent.” She shook her head. “The original plan was for me to be there earlier. I got held up and didn’t make it until closing. Jack understood. He could be quite…pleasant. When he wanted to be.”

“Sounds like you two go back a ways.”

Cathy Poulson smiled and sat back and swept dark hair from her face. Light from the rear of the room caught on her platinum ring.

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Would you be so kind as to fill us in?” said Lamar.

“About my relationship with Jack?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is that really necessary? Seeing as I’m not your culprit.”

“The more information we have, the easier our job is, ma’am.”

“Believe me,” said Cathy Poulson, “I’m not going to be able to make your job any easier because all I can tell you is Jack and I spoke briefly and then I left.” A manicured hand graced her left breast. “Please, guys, given all I’ve gone through this past year, I really can’t handle any more stress.”

Shifting from “gentlemen” to “guys.” This one parceled out the charm. Lamar wondered how much she’d rehearsed, and knew Baker was thinking the same thing.

Baker put on his nice voice and leaned forward. “We have no intention of causing you stress, ma’am. But we do need to compile data.”

She stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time. Shifted back to Lamar. “College basketball?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Sorry, that was inappropriate. It’s just that my son’s into sports- basketball, football, baseball, you name it. He just started at college. I’m here all alone. Feeling really alone.”

“Vanderbilt?”

“Oh, no,” she said, with some fervor. “Vanderbilt would’ve been great, he could’ve stayed in a dorm room, he knows I’d never meddle, but he’d still have the opportunity to come home on weekends to dump laundry, maybe grant me a few ‘Hi, Moms.’ No, Tristan’s at Brown in Rhode Island. Smallest state in the union and there’s where he picks.”

“Supposed to be a good school,” said Lamar. “Ivy League, right?”

“Right, but so what? My husband went to Chico State College and he was the most successful man I’ve ever met. Granted, Tristan’s an excellent student, his SATs were terrific, and all his varsity letters were impressive. His guidance counselor said he was Ivy League material from the git-go. But Vanderbilt’s just as good. Now he’s never here. Never.”

Raising her volume so by the last word it was like hearing someone else’s voice- shrill, angry. A deeper flush took hold of her face and wrinkles started to show around the edges of her makeup, like fault lines.

One of those mood-disorder things? Lamar wondered. Or is she trying to tell us something? Because this one sets things up like a stage director. From the way she plants her trees and arranges her expensive furniture to bringing us lemonade we don’t ask for.

Staying in control.

But if there was a message beyond the fact that she missed her kid, he wasn’t picking it up. And for a new widow, he supposed that was a normal reaction.

Still, there was something about her…He said, “Must be tough, alone in a big house.”

“Alone,” said Cathy Poulson, “is tough, anywhere.”

Baker smiled. “Could I use your restroom, please, ma’am?”

He glanced at the mantel as he left, and was gone for a while. Lamar digressed by commenting on Cathy Poulson’s paintings. She jumped at the opportunity to walk him around the room, announcing titles and artists and describing how and where and when her deceased husband had acquired each picture. When they got to the mantel, he saw mostly pictures of her with a token nod to a few snapshots with the husband. Nothing of the kid.