Ramsey studied the offending body part again, opened the palm. “I never did- I'm going to get something to drink. Sure you don't want?”

“Positive.”

He was gone for several minutes, came back with a can of Diet Sprite. Popping the top, he sat back and drank.

Petra said, “You just mentioned going out to a pond. I don't remember seeing one out back.”

“That's because it was our other house.” Our, not my. Another indication he hadn't severed all the ties. Nor had he lapsed into distancing language, the way murderers sometimes do in the middle of their chronologies, starting with we and switching to she and I. Petra had read an FBI report claiming linguistic analysis could offer major clues. She wasn't convinced, but she was open-minded.

Ramsey drank more soda, looked genuinely miserable.

“Your other house?” said Petra.

“We have a weekend place up in Montecito. Actually, a bigger house than this. It's pretty nuts, maintenance-wise. There's a little pond there I used to find peaceful.”

“Used to?”

“Don't go there much anymore. That's the way it is with second houses- I've heard the same thing from other people.”

“They don't get utilized?”

He nodded. “You think you're getting yourself some refuge and it just becomes another set of obligations- the place was too damn big in the first place. God knows this one is, too.”

“So you don't go up there much.”

“Last time had to be…” He looked at the ceiling. “… months ago.”

Suddenly his body jerked, an almost seizurelike movement that snapped his head down and brought his attention forward. His eyes met Petra's. Wet. He wiped them quickly.

“The last time Lisa and I were up there together,” he said, “was that time. We never went back together. A few days after the show aired, she moved out again and I got served with papers. I thought everything was patched up.”

Petra kept the poignancy at bay and thought: The DV episode had gone down in Montecito. She'd call Ron Banks and save him more searching.

Ramsey rested his chin in his hand again.

“Okay,” she said. “This is helpful. Now, if you don't mind, let's talk about the night Lisa was murdered.”

27

Mildred Board would have liked to scrub the kitchen floor.

Years ago, she'd accomplished the task every single day. A one-hour commitment, up to the elbows in soapy water from six A.M. to seven. Excellent thinking time, no distraction from the slosh or the circular movements of cotton rags on yellow linoleum.

Once the arthritis set in, all that stooping and rubbing became unbearable, and she was lucky if she was able to attend to the floor once a week.

The dining room parquet required attention as well. The wood was faded, buckling and cracked in spots, long past due for a refinish.

Every inch of wood visible; the dining room was empty, all the missus's furniture shipped off to those Sotheby's people in New York.

Mildred felt an uncomfortable tightening around her eyes. She breathed in and straightened her back and said, “One does one's best,'' in a firm voice.

Firm and loud. No one to hear her. The missus was upstairs. So many other rooms between them, all empty and closed off.

The kitchen with its old cherrywood cabinets, industrial refrigerators, and three ovens was big enough for a hotel. The pots and pans and cutlery remained, as did the missus's favorite bone china set and a few sentimental silver pieces in the butler's pantry. And the magnificent linen press the Sotheby's people said they couldn't hope to sell. But the lovely things- the treasures the missus and him had acquired in Europe- were all gone. Brought in fine prices, they had, even after the auctioneer's premium and the taxes. Mildred had seen the check, known everything was going to be all right. For a while.

She and the missus had never discussed the… financial situation. The missus continued to pay her, insisting upon full salary, though Lord knew Mildred didn't deserve it- what use was she in this state?

Destructive thoughts. Banish, banish.

She noticed a water spot on the cabinet below the sink, found a rag, wiped it clean.

Back in the old days, the kitchen had been a bustling place, the missus and him entertaining constantly, caterers milling about, waiters rushing, pots steaming, stainless steel counters blanketed with platters of savories and sweets. Not the least of the latter were Mildred's pies. No matter who the missus hired for catering, she'd always craved Mildred's pies, most notably the plum, the Dorset apple, and the mixed-berry. So had him. So had… everyone.

Mildred had cooked and cleaned in the big house for forty-one years, two years after the missus and him moved in. The lodge at Lake Arrowhead as well, but lakeside weekends had only been an occasional thing, even when him was alive, and often the missus called in a cleaning service to remove the tarpaulins and clear the taps.

The lodge hadn't been used for over a decade. Not since the terrible weekend.

Mildred sighed and tamped her hair. Forty-one years, shining the silver, shampooing the wall-to-walls, cleaning nearly a hundred windows, even the leaded glass panels him had acquired from a church in Italy. Oh, the missus always provided another girl to help, but none of them ever managed to keep up.

For the first decade, her workmate had been Anna Joslyn, that dim, skinny girl from Ireland. Not quite focused, mentally speaking, but a good worker and strong as a brood mare. Then the big loud one from Denmark with the vulgar bosoms, that one hadn't worked out at all- what a mistake!

After the Dane, all the agency sent were Mexicans. Good workers, most of them, and generally honest, though Mildred kept her eyes open. Some spoke English, some didn't. Either way, it was their problem. Mildred refused to learn Spanish- English and French were quite enough, thank you. Miss Hammock's class at the orphanage had emphasized only English and French, and eight decades of its graduates had worked in the finest homes of Britain and the Continent.

The Mexicans weren't a horrid lot, but they seldom lasted very long. Rushing to some family crisis in Mexico, children, husbands, paramours, saints' days, who could keep score of all those Catholic assignations. Mildred would have preferred young ladies properly churched and educated, straight-backed girls who knew the difference between Royal Crown Derby and Chinese Export. But one accepted.

The problem, she knew, was that there were no more orphanages- all those babies cut from the womb or allowed to remain with unfit welfare slatterns. One had only to read the paper.

No need anymore for Mexican girls. Or anyone else, for that matter.

Mildred was seventy-three, and she wondered if she'd live long enough to witness the final collapse of everything rational and right.

Not that she expected to keel over any day soon. Except for the arthritis, she felt quite fine. But one never knew. Look what had happened to the missus. Such a beautiful woman, the most graceful woman Mildred had ever seen on either side of the ocean. Nothing but kind words ever left her lips, such patience, and Lord knew living with him had often required patience.

Look at her now… thinking about it, Mildred's eyes felt weak.

The coffeepot hissed. Right on time. Mildred poured the missus's coffee into a Victorian pitcher. Clumsy-looking piece, probably a gift from some dinner guest. The lovely pitcher- the Hester Bateman- was gone. George III, a banner year, proper hallmarks and all. Him had brought it back from one of his London trips, a first-class shop on Mount Street. Someone else might have relegated it to a display case. The missus believed in using the fine things. It had been her breakfast pitcher.