I frown at him. It’s true, though; I didn’t remember that part. And Herb Rawlings was well into his sixties; his policy almost certainly issued more than three years ago. Folks in his tax bracket start their estate planning early. I look across the table at the Kydd, silently asking the question I think I’ve already answered.

“You guessed it,” he says, tapping his pen against the issue date stamped on the policy’s first page. “Three years and a month.”

It’s worse than I thought. A groan escapes me.

“Damn,” Harry says, sipping his coffee. “I hate it when that happens.”

“To the day,” the Kydd adds. “And that’s not all.” He pauses, reaches into the cardboard box and pulls out a square knot, Sticky Buns’s nautical version of the universal cinnamon roll. “It gets worse.”

“Kydd,” I say, taking the last coffee from the tray, “I had precisely one strategy for this case. You just told me not only that it’s a failure, but that it actually hurts us, cuts the other way. How much worse can it get?”

I regret the question even before I absorb the expression on his face.

“Worse,” he repeats, flipping through Herb’s policy to yet another highlighted section. “In addition to the other benefits provided herein…”

The Kydd interrupts his recitation, looks up at Harry and me to make sure we’re listening. We are.

“…the Company agrees to pay twice the face amount of this policy if the insured has suffered loss of life as the direct result of bodily injury caused solely by accidental means.”

A double-indemnity clause. I’m speechless.

Harry lets out a low whistle.

The Kydd sets the policy down, takes his glasses off again and tosses them on the desk. He leans back and examines his square knot before taking a huge bite. “The motive…” he says, pointing what’s left of his pastry at us.

I consider telling him not to talk with his mouth full, but I bite my tongue instead.

“…just doubled.”

The Kydd and I turn onto Easy Street on schedule, at high noon. This morning’s fog has burned off and the mid-October sun is bright, but not quite warm. It glitters on the small waves lapping at the Rawlingses’ dock and turns the crushed oyster shells in their driveway an impossible, almost blinding white. Even the seagulls, busily dropping quahogs from the sky to the rocks below to crack their shells, look cleaner than usual. Sun-bleached feathered fishermen.

It’s obvious Louisa Rawlings is expecting us. Her inside front door is open, the screens in the outer door admitting the autumn chill to her otherwise buttoned-up house. Three ears of Indian corn—one yellow, two rust-colored—hang from the shingles beside the front door. A large pumpkin—uncarved as yet—sits on the top step. These are new additions since yesterday. The grieving widow has done a bit of seasonal decorating.

I cut the Thunderbird’s engine and grab my beat-up briefcase from the backseat, but the Kydd doesn’t reach for his. He doesn’t move at all. He seems frozen in the passenger seat, eyes wide as he takes in the Rawlings estate. “Hot damn,” he says, “what a spread.”

“We’re in the high-rent district now,” I tell him. “So behave yourself.”

He grins.

“If you don’t, you’ll be exiled to the slums of South Chatham for life.”

He laughs out loud.

South Chatham is a quaint seaside village of antique shingled cottages, small professional offices, and family-run shops. It doesn’t feature the lavish landscape of its wealthy sister to the north, and it certainly doesn’t host an exclusive country club, but it’s not a slum by anyone’s standards. The Kydd lives there, in a rented cottage. And Harry does too, in a small apartment on the second floor of our office building. They both tell anyone who’ll listen that they’re slumming it down south.

Louisa emerges from the house as the Kydd and I extricate ourselves and our briefcases from my old, tired Thunderbird. She strides toward us on the brick walkway, perfect crimson lips smiling, every bit as impeccably turned out as she was yesterday. Today’s color scheme is different—slacks and heels dark brown, blouse an opalescent cream. And her hair is restyled, pulled back in a French braid. But the overall effect is exactly the same as yesterday’s. Long. Lithe. Lovely.

“Marty,” she says, checking her watch as she nears us, “you’re right on time.”

Had I not spent so much of my life with the Kydd during the past few years, I might have thought Louisa said I was “rat on tam.” But I know better; my Southern-speak is well honed now. Besides, I’m so happy to be addressed by my given name—as opposed to darlin’ or honey chil’—I don’t much care what she said afterward.

I return her smile, then pivot so I can direct her attention to the Kydd. No need, though. She’s way ahead of me, waiting for the introduction.

“Louisa, I’d like you to meet Kevin Kydd, our associate. He’s going to be working with us.”

She takes another step toward him and extends a manicured hand. “Mr. Kydd,” she says, “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. And I am truly grateful for your assistance. I cannot thank you enough.”

Mr. Kydd looks like he’s in the midst of a beatific vision. His expression is one the shepherds might have worn upon discovering the swaddled babe in the manger.

“Oh, ma’am,” he responds, receiving Louisa’s hand as if it might shatter at the touch of a mere mortal, “the pleasure is all mine. And please do not thank me yet. I only hope my assistance will prove useful.”

Maybe I’m imagining it, but both drawls seem to thicken when Louisa and the Kydd speak to each other. The two of them have developed an acute aversion to contractions too. And the Kydd seems to think Louisa’s hand is his to keep.

“Please come in,” she says, turning in her high heels to retrace her steps to the front door. “I made tea.” She glances back at us over her shoulder and flashes her wide smile again. “Iced tea, y’all say in these parts. Sweet tea, we call it at home. Or unsweet tea, for some.”

That’s the first y’all I’ve heard from Louisa Rawlings. At least it’s a contraction.

She faces forward again and heads for the house. I fall into step behind her, but the Kydd doesn’t move. After a few paces I pause to look back at him. “Kydd,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t seem to hear.

“Kydd,” I repeat, a little louder this time.

He blinks and shakes his head, as if he’s snapping out of a trance. His expression suggests he’s never seen me before.

I hold his gaze and walk back to him, so our client won’t hear my words. Even at this distance, I don’t dare risk more than a stage whisper. “I don’t want to be bossy, Kydd, but I think you ought to close your mouth.”

He steals a glance ahead, at Louisa, and swallows hard before he takes my suggestion.

“Now come on,” I tell him. “Let’s get to work. After all, we’re rat on tam.”

My teeth have grown fur. One sip of Louisa’s home brew did the trick. I don’t dare take a second. Calling it sweet tea is like saying there’s a pinch or two of salt in the Atlantic.

The Kydd is already finished his and I wonder for a moment if I can get away with switching our glasses. Too late, though. Our hostess is pouring him another. “You were thirsty,” she says.

He shakes his head as he watches her pour. “Not especially, but this is fine tea, Mrs. Rawlings. Mighty fine.”

That settles it. The Kydd is definitely speaking a new dialect. He’s always had a distinct drawl, but he’s never sounded like a Ewing before. I expect he’ll swagger any minute now.

“Please,” she says to him, “call me Louisa.”

Either my eyes deceive me or my associate is blushing, right up to the rims of his sizable ears.

Louisa sees it too. She smiles and hands him the refill. “I’m so glad you like it,” she tells him. “Herb always said my sweet tea should be patented.”