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“Speaking of the shower,” I say, “you took one when you got home from the club last Sunday?”

“Yes.” She shakes her head, as if clearing it, reminding herself why we’re all standing in her bathroom, and then she points to a frosted-glass enclosure opposite the tub.

The Kydd walks over and opens its door. I follow and we’re both silent for a beat as we look inside. The entire bathroom in my cottage would fit easily into Louisa Rawlings’s shower stall. A bench outlines its perimeter, and a panel of switches faces us from the wall below the showerhead.

“Look,” the Kydd says, flipping a switch. “It’s a steam room.”

No sooner does he utter the words than a circular opening near us coughs out a puff of vapor. As if taking a cue, a half dozen other metallic circles cough in unison, again and again, filling the glassed enclosure with cloud after cloud of rising steam. The Kydd grins like a five-year-old at his first amusement park.

Louisa smiles at us, obviously amused by our fascination with her plumbing. “The steam,” she says to me. “It does wonderful things for the complexion.”

Enough of the Queen’s Spa. Better to exit before our client starts sharing beauty tips. “To the sunroom next?” I ask her.

She nods and heads for the door. “With The New York Times,” she says.

Louisa leaves the Queen’s Spa and I start to follow, but I pause in the doorway to check on the Kydd. He’s still playing with the steam.

“Shut it off,” I tell him.

He actually pouts.

“And make a note,” I add, “to pull the latest warrant cases.”

The corners of his mouth droop farther and I don’t blame him. Warrant cases multiply daily, it seems. No two searches or seizures are alike, and each case offers a new wrinkle on what law enforcement can—and can’t—seize without that magic piece of paper. Warrant research needs to be updated constantly.

We’re hoping we don’t get to the point where we actually need it, of course. We’d like our talks with the Chatham police to remain cordial. We’d like Mitch Walker to perceive us as entirely cooperative, having nothing to hide. But we need to know before we start answering questions where we can legitimately draw the line. Just in case.

“I’m sorry,” I tell the Kydd. And I mean it. “I know that kills what little was left of your weekend.”

He looks almost grief-stricken for a moment, but then the dutiful associate in him takes over. He shrugs. “Weekend? What weekend? I don’t have any plans. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I had any plans. But I’m damned sure it was before I set up camp with you and Kimosabe.”

The Kydd looks sad as he closes the steam room door, as if he’s saying good-bye to an old friend. But then he brightens and points to a door across from it. “Look at this,” he says, pushing it open. “A completely separate room for the throne. Can you believe it?”

Again the grin. I turn my back on him to follow Louisa, but then think better of leaving him to his own devices in the Queen’s Spa. “Hey, Tonto,” I call over my shoulder. “Saddle up and ride.”

CHAPTER 12

The crush of tires on oyster shells draws Louisa to the beveled window above her kitchen sink. She lifts the muslin curtain away from the glass and then drops it almost at once. “Must be lunchtime,” she says, turning to face the Kydd and me. “Anastasia’s here.”

Car doors slam and, instantaneously, a high-pitched, eardrum-piercing yelping begins. It takes on a regular rhythm as it nears the house: two short, one long. Yip-yip-wail; yip-yip-wail. “Oh good,” Louisa adds, the corners of her glossy lips turning downward as her eyes roll up. “She brought the beast.”

The front door opens and then slams. Heavy footsteps clomp toward us through the living room, lighter ones following a short distance behind. Louisa doesn’t budge. She stays planted in the kitchen with us, leaning against the sink with her eyes raised to the heavens. It seems she’s not particularly pleased about her Sunday-afternoon callers. She’s in no hurry to greet them.

Anastasia strikes a pose in the kitchen doorway, one arm raised to the full height of the entry, “the beast” poking its diminutive head out from under her flowing black cape. She’s a large woman, not as tall as Louisa, but much broader, bigger-boned. Her straight black hair is parted down the middle, early-Cher-style, and it hangs well past her buttocks. Her pallid complexion is unblemished and she likes eyeliner. Lots of it.

“Jeepers, creepers,” the Kydd mumbles. I glare at him. He has the good sense not to finish his rhyme.

Louisa laughs. “My sentiments exactly,” she says in a low voice. She turns a radiant smile toward the doorway, but her dark eyes don’t participate. “Anastasia,” she croons, “what a treat.”

“Save it,” Anastasia bellows in a full baritone, “for someone who gives a damn.” She barrels into the kitchen and a slight, denim-clad fellow ambles in behind her. He wears narrow glasses and his wispy gray hair is pulled back into a skinny ponytail that hangs to the center of his shoulder blades. He’s the beatnik boyfriend, no doubt; the about-to-be, on-the-verge, any-minutenow, runaway-best-selling-murder-mystery author.

Anastasia sets her pooch free on the kitchen floor. It’s a miniature poodle, shaved bald except for black muffs above its paws and a matching pillbox hat. Jackie O would be flattered, no doubt. It scampers around the room, takes in the scent of each of us, and then scurries to the hat rack in the corner and lifts its leg.

“Oh for the love of God,” Louisa says, closing her eyes against the sight. “Get that animal out of here.”

“I’ll take care of it,” the beatnik volunteers at once. He rests a hand on Louisa’s forearm, as if that might make her feel better. Louisa glares at his hand as if it’s a branding iron, but the boyfriend doesn’t notice; he’s looking at the creature in the corner. “Lucifer,” he singsongs, “bad, bad dog.”

Bad, bad dog yawns and lies down on his stomach, his front paws stretched out toward us. He plans to stay awhile.

Louisa shuts her eyes again and the ponytailed boyfriend hustles to the opposite side of the kitchen. Without hesitating, he opens an end closet and finds a spray bottle of disinfectant and a roll of paper towels. It seems he’s done this before.

Anastasia laughs, unties her long cape with a flourish and tosses it on the counter, next to the toaster, as if it belongs there. She’s dressed entirely in black, from the high collar of her calf-length dress to the tips of her thick-soled, ankle-high boots. She settles on the edge of a stool across the counter from mine and begins removing her elbow-length gloves, one finger at a time, all the while examining the Kydd and me as if we’re for sale.

“Marty Nickerson and Kevin Kydd,” Louisa says. “This is Herb’s daughter, Anastasia.”

Anastasia has lost interest in our faces by the time the brief introductions are made. She’s pulling her long gloves across her palm, looking into our open briefcases instead, as if something of hers might be in one of them.

“And that,” Louisa continues, extending a hand toward the hat rack, “is Lance Phillips. Same as the screwdriver,” she adds, “but no relation.”

Lance waves at us, still on his knees wiping up the mess. “Pleasure,” he mumbles.

Not so, apparently, for Anastasia. Her upper lip curls back when she looks at us again. “You’re lawyers?” she asks. Her tone suggests the word is synonymous with shysters.

We both nod, guilty as charged.

She turns accusing eyes on Louisa and drops her gloves into her lap. She’s quiet for a moment, pulling her lustrous locks over one shoulder, utter contempt displayed on her face. “My father is dead,” she spits, “lost at sea. And his merry widow is talking to lawyers.”