Plenty of liquids are patented. Chemicals, for instance. Commercial fertilizers. Industrial-strength disinfectants. That doesn’t mean they’re fit for human consumption. I clear my throat, intending to put an end to this meeting of the Southern Admiration Society, but the doorbell drowns me out.

“Excuse me,” Louisa says, wiping her hands on a terry-cloth towel at the sink. She leaves the Kydd and me in the kitchen and heads back through the living room toward the front door. Another non–Cape Codder has come to call, it seems, using the wrong door.

I cross the kitchen and hand Louisa’s file to the Kydd. For a split second, he seems not to know why. “We came here to work,” I remind him. “Not to attend a tea party.”

He drains his glass, sets it on the counter, then stands at attention and salutes. I hand him my glass, still full. “Drink that,” I tell him. He does.

Louisa returns with a tall, sharp-featured man in tow. He’s dressed in a well-cut navy blue suit, starched white shirt, and maroon tie. He looks as if he might be campaigning for political office, canvassing door-to-door in search of votes. “This is Steven Collier,” Louisa says to the Kydd and me. “I believe I mentioned him to you, Marty.”

She did. He’s the money guy, Quick-draw McGraw. He apparently makes house calls. And on Saturday afternoons, no less.

Quick-draw’s slicked-back hair is far too black to have come from Mother Nature. He greets the Kydd with a vigorous handshake and then accepts my outstretched hand more reluctantly, tossing his glossy head back toward the other room. He wants to speak privately, his dark eyes tell me. Maybe he plans to diversify my portfolio. Money guys sometimes assume that I have one.

He cups my elbow in his palm—a gesture I find utterly irritating—and propels me toward the living room. “I need some advice,” he says as he closes the heavy doors between us and the kitchen.

Yes, he does. And I should give it to him. Don’t steer women around as if we’re on wheels, I should say. But I don’t. No need to alienate a potential witness. “Advice about what?” I ask instead.

“About what I know.”

“Pardon?”

“How much do I know?”

“How much do you know?” He knows more than I do at the moment. I don’t even know what he’s asking.

“About Louisa,” he says.

Now I’m thoroughly confused. “You want me to tell you how much you know about Louisa?”

He crosses the room and leans over to rest one forearm on the mantel, his back to me. He’s quiet for a second, staring down at the few logs crackling in the fireplace. The living room’s heavy drapes are closed and the only other light in here is thrown by a floor lamp in the far corner.

“I’m asking you how much I should know,” he says, turning to face me again.

I shake my head. I don’t know what the hell he’s driving at.

“About her finances, for example.” He puts one hand on his hip and raises the other, along with his eyes, to the ceiling. He’s annoyed.

“You’re her money manager. You should know everything about her finances, shouldn’t you?”

He runs both hands through his inky hair and laughs, staring into the fire and then eyeing me sideways. I’m apparently one of the denser people he’s come across in life. “I do,” he says. “Of course I do. But I don’t have to tell them that.”

“Them?”

“The cops. If they think Louisa offed her husband to get at the insurance proceeds, they’re going to want to talk to me, aren’t they?”

“They probably will,” I tell him, “if the investigation goes that far.”

“Then you need to tell me what to say.”

I pause for a moment to look him in the eyes, to make sure he means what I think he means. He does.

“You’re mistaken, Mr. Collier. I don’t need to do any such thing. In fact, I’m specifically prohibited from doing anything of the sort.”

“What do you mean, you’re prohibited? You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”

Every once in a while I meet someone who seems to feel compelled to inform me that I am a lawyer. Generally speaking, I don’t like these people. Implicit in the pronouncement is the arrogant assumption that I’m not acting like one.

“Mr. Collier,” I tell him, “if the police question you about this matter, you should tell them nothing but the truth.”

“The truth.” He half laughs, staring at me, as if he’s waiting for my real answer.

I nod. “No need to volunteer anything,” I tell him. “Just answer the questions asked. But don’t try to hide information either.”

“That’s the best you can do?”

“Yes, it is. Get cute with them and you’ll be the target of the next investigation.”

He laughs again, a full one this time, and heads back toward the kitchen. Apparently I’m dismissed.

“Mr. Collier,” I say as he approaches the doors, “I was wondering…”

He hesitates, his hand on the doorknob, as if whatever portion of his day he’d allotted for his discussion with me has been used up. After a moment, he turns to face me, his impatience plain.

I walk closer to him, so I can look him in the eyes when he answers. “I was wondering if you might know anything about the Rawlingses’ marriage.”

“Their marriage?”

“Yes. I’m curious as to whether they were having problems of any kind, what the prospects might have been for their future.”

He plants both hands on his hips, forcing his suit coat open in the process. My eyes rest on a shiny revolver in a shoulder holster at his rib cage.

His gaze follows mine for a moment, and then he looks back up at me, smiling. “Don’t worry,” he says, “it’s legit. I’m licensed.”

I consider telling him I’m not as worried as he might assume—I’m packing my own Lady Smith, after all—but decide against it. “I was asking about the Rawlingses’ marriage,” I remind him.

His return gaze is steady. “Herb and Louisa Rawlings were extremely happy together. They had no problems.”

I nod, but say nothing.

Now it’s his turn to take a step closer. He seems to want to look me in the eyes too. “Their future,” he says, “was secure.”

CHAPTER 9

It’s after five by the time we wrap up. The Kydd has reassembled Louisa’s file, adding the copious notes he took this afternoon to the paltry pages I scratched out yesterday. He amassed a small mountain of legal-size sheets today, writing almost nonstop since we got started, and I’m pretty sure I know why. He’s besotted with our damsel in distress. Note-taking kept him from drooling. At least most of the time.

I rest on the edge of a kitchen stool and face Louisa, who’s leaning against the stove, arms folded, watching the Kydd position her file in the belly of his briefcase. “About Steven Collier,” I begin.

Her gaze shifts to me and she tilts her auburn head to one side. “What about him?”

“Did he handle Herb’s money too? Or just yours?”

She laughs. “Only Herb handled Herb’s money, darlin’. No one else put a hand in that cookie jar.”

I look around the kitchen for a moment, and then into the sunroom, where late-afternoon light reflects off the waves outside and casts intricate designs on the far wall. Of course Herb Rawlings managed his own assets. He must’ve been damned good at it.

“Herb and Steven talked about money all the time,” Louisa continues. “They never tired of it—stocks, bonds, tax shelters, you name it. They were always bandying moneymaking strategies about. Investing was a competitive sport for them. They kept tabs on Wall Street the way other men follow football.”

“Did Steven have access to Herb’s financial affairs? Copies of documents, for instance?”

Louisa pauses for a moment, considering. “Some,” she says. “Herb gave Steven copies of whatever documents he thought would affect my estate planning: the will, the insurance policies, that sort of thing.”