The Kydd lifts his head above the vanity, high enough so he can see, and it’s all I can do not to scream at him to get the hell back down. The shooter fires again but this time it’s just for effect. The moon-snail tile takes a hit; it’s nowhere near the Kydd’s vanity fort. His eyes clear it once more.

And then I get it. He knows I’m here. The tilt of his head in my direction is barely perceptible, but it’s there. Somehow, through the minute crack in the door, he caught a glimpse of me. He has a plan; it’s plain on his face. And my gut says he aims to elicit a confession.

“All right,” he says to the duo on the other side of the door. “My number’s up. So get it over with already.” He stays crouched behind the vanity but points toward the Mother Swan. “I guess you’ll want that,” he says. “It worked well for you the last time—or its twin did, anyhow.”

They both laugh now—hers low-pitched and menacing, his too loud and forced. Anastasia Rawlings and Steven Collier. Strange bedfellows indeed.

Louisa’s words during our Monday-afternoon meeting in the jury room come back to me and one more piece of the puzzle locks into place. Anastasia Rawlings spent her entire childhood around boats, thanks to her father. And Steven Collier owns a vessel of his own.

“That won’t be necessary,” Collier replies now. “You’re breaking and entering in the nighttime, after all, Mr. Kydd. I’m entitled to use reasonable force to protect the home’s occupants. Every court in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts would agree.”

This man is hell-bent on practicing law.

“And just look around the room,” Collier continues. “We’ve had quite a struggle in here.”

“Why not get rid of Herb that way?” the Kydd asks. “Why use a goddamned plumbing fixture if you’re packing a piece?”

The Kydd’s plan has one thing going for it: Collier loves to hear himself talk. It’s not Collier who answers this time, though. “You fool,” Anastasia spits. “My father wasn’t supposed to die.”

“He was only supposed to sign a couple of documents,” Collier adds. “It could have been so simple.” He sounds almost wistful.

“What documents?” the Kydd asks.

This dialogue can’t go on much longer. Collier has a loaded revolver trained on the Kydd, after all.

“A new will,” Anastasia says calmly.

I wonder if Attorney Collier drafted it.

“And a new beneficiary designation form,” he adds, “from New England Patriot.”

The life insurance. Collier would have known all about the double-indemnity clause. He’d have known about the three-year proviso for suicide, too. He’s a money guy.

“My father agreed,” Anastasia volunteers. “He said he would sign them. He promised.” I can picture her stomping a clodhopper.

“But then he reneged,” Collier complains. “Changed his mind for some reason.”

“Some reason?” Anastasia snaps. “Please. We all know the reason.”

Something tells me the reason has auburn hair and a French manicure.

“Did you confront him together?” the Kydd asks.

I’m sweltering in here. Zipping up my jacket was a mistake. I don’t dare touch the zipper now, though.

“We didn’t confront him,” Anastasia says. “We tried to talk sense into him. It wasn’t right, what he was doing. I’m his flesh and blood.”

Collier takes a couple of steps toward the Kydd. I can see him now. “We came on Sunday morning,” he says, “knowing Louisa would be at the club. We thought he’d be more reasonable without her influence. He was in the steam room when we arrived.” Collier takes another step and leans on the vanity, obstructing my view of the Kydd. “So we waited right here.”

“But he wouldn’t sign?” The Kydd’s calm is extraordinary. It’s also insane.

“He refused.” Collier actually laughs. “But that’s not all. He became combative. Took a swing at me. So I pushed him away.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Anastasia says. She sounds close to tears all of a sudden. “That was the mistake. That’s why all of this happened.”

“Dear girl,” Collier answers, “we’ve been through this a hundred times. The man left me no choice.”

“He slipped,” Anastasia says. “My father slipped and fell backward. No one hit him.”

And there it is. Mother Swan didn’t attack Herb Rawlings. Herb Rawlings walloped her.

Collier stands up straight, away from the sink, and I can see the top of the Kydd’s head above the vanity.

“What’s in it for you?” the Kydd asks. He points toward Anastasia. “She gets the money. But what do you get?”

I can see Collier in full profile, revolver still in hand. He has the Kydd in point-blank range now. “Twenty Questions is over,” he says.

And he’s right. It is.

The blast knocks me backward for a second and then I’m through the throne-room door. Collier writhes on the floor, clutching his shoulder, a pool of blood collecting on the floorboards beneath him. His weapon is nowhere to be seen. Anastasia backs up against the steam-room door and wails. It’s even worse than the funeral keening—she’s scared now. The beast scampers around the room in circles. Yip-yip-wail. Yip-yip-wail.

No Kydd.

My Lady Smith zeros in on Anastasia—Collier’s not going anywhere at the moment—and I flip on the tulip-shaped lights above the sink. And then the Kydd’s head pops up, as if he’d been attached to a TFR. He’s in the hot tub. “Look what I found,” he says, showing me Collier’s revolver. His tone suggests he found a shiny new penny, head’s up.

“Get out of the damned tub,” I tell him.

I’m going to strangle him yet.

CHAPTER 32

Friday, October 20

The Barnstable County Sheriff’s Department kept Steven Collier company at Cape Cod Hospital and then transported him to the Superior Courthouse for his arraignment. They arrived at four A.M. By then, Geraldine had completed the paperwork necessary to secure Louisa Rawlings’s release. The night clerk called Leon Long at home and the judge agreed to come in as soon as all the major players were assembled. And now, at four-thirty, almost all of us are here.

Harry listened without interruption as the Kydd and I recounted the evening’s events. “Sweet Jesus,” he says to us now, his hazel eyes wide. “You two are dangerous.”

The Kydd and I both laugh, cavalier now that we’re out of harm’s way. “You speak truth, Kimosabe,” the Kydd intones, his expression grave.

“Think about it,” I tell them. “Herb Rawlings fell backward and hit himself on that brass swan. What if Herb had landed somewhere else? A few inches to either side and none of this would have happened.”

Harry lowers his chin and his eyebrows knit.

I shrug. I realize that what ifs don’t matter in our world. This is the kind of rumination a real defense lawyer wouldn’t indulge in. But I’ve certainly never laid claim to that title.

“A few inches to either side,” Harry says, “and Lincoln would’ve gone to the cast party.”

He’s right, of course. Now there’s a what if.

Steven Collier comes through the side door, flanked by county sheriffs, one arm in a sling, the other cuffed to one of his escorts. He sits at the far end of the jury box as directed, his cuff-mate standing beside him. Collier’s cold eyes meet mine and I can’t resist. I give him a little wave—à la Rinky Snow—and punctuate it with a satisfied smile. He deserves every last miserable day that lies ahead. Not only because he murdered Herb Rawlings, but also because he damn near succeeded in forcing Louisa to pay the price for his cowardly crime.

Anastasia enters next, between two less-than-happy-looking matrons, and it’s somewhat startling to see her dressed in orange. She’s not only cuffed; she’s shackled at the ankles as well. She must have gotten belligerent with her keepers. She shuffles across the courtroom without looking at her partner in crime and thuds into a chair on the end of the jury box closest to us. She glares at us, her teeth and fists clenched, and this time I figure it’s the Kydd’s turn to wave. He does. And he grins for her too—his signature grin.