"Oh," said Michelle sheepishly.

"The police told me all the evidence leads to Junior, including his fingerprints."

"But he was doing work here," said King. "That could account for the print."

"They found it on the outside of one of the panes of the busted window." She added, "I hired Junior to workin my bedroom, notoutside my damn window."

"And I understand that things were stolen from Bobby's closet as well."

"It was broken into."

"And what was taken?" asked Michelle.

"Come on, you can see for yourself."

She led them out of her room and down the hall, where she opened another door. They found themselves in a room that reeked of cigar and pipe smoke. It was an intensively masculine room, Michelle noted. A shotgun rack hung over the fireplace, although there was no weapon on it. A pair of antique swords hung on another wall. They were crossed one over the other, forming a large X. There were several oil paintings of splendid horses. A pipe rack stood against one corner with a number of well-chewed pipes hanging from it. In another corner was a campaign desk and chair. The bed was small, and the nightstand next to it was stacked with magazines on fishing, hunting and science. One entire wall was devoted to photos of Bobby Battle. He was a tall, thick-chested man with dark, wavy hair and features seemingly cast in iron. In most of the photos he was either fishing or hunting, but there was one of him jumping out of a plane and another where he was piloting a chopper.

Remmy waved her hand in front of her nose. "I'm sorry for the smell. We've aired it out for days, and the smell's still there. It must be in the carpet and furniture by now. Bobby loves his pipes and cigars."

As Michelle looked around at Robert E. Lee Battle's lair, images of the man seemed to flow to her apart from the photos: a bear of a man who lived life hard and took no prisoners. That such a man was lying now in a coma with bleak prospects of ever coming back made her very depressed, even though she'd never met him and was disgusted by his womanizing reputation.

Michelle pointed to several photos of Battle with large groups of people. "What are those of?"

"Some of Bobby's employees. He was an engineer-turned-businessman. Holds over a hundred patents. Looking at this room, you might think my husband was all play and no work, but Bobby is, above all else, a hard worker. The things he invented, they all made money."

"When did you two meet?" asked Michelle. She added quickly, "I know it's a personal question, but he seems such a fascinating man."

Remmy actually smiled at this. "He walked into my daddy's clothing store in Birmingham, Alabama, forty-five years ago and announced that he'd seen me at several events and I was the prettiest thing he'd ever laid eyes on and he was going to marry me. And he just wanted my daddy to know, although he said he wasn't seeking permission, which was and in many ways still is the custom down there. He said the only person he had to convince of his intentions was me. Well, he did. I was only eighteen then and hadn't seen anything of life, but I was no pushover. Yet he eventually won me."

"Quite the whirlwind," said King.

"He was ten years older than me. When we got married, he hadn't made much money, but he had the brains to and the drive. He was special. And yet he wanted me. " This last part was said with surprising humility.

"Well, it's not like you weren't quite a catch," said King sincerely.

"I suppose I was one of the very few to stand up to him. Oh, we had our peaks and our valleys like most folks," she added quietly.

Remmy opened a door and motioned them in. "Bobby's closet."

The space was far smaller than his wife's closet but was still elaborately built out.

Remmy pushed back some pants hanging on rods and pointed to the side of one of the cabinets where a panel of wood had been broken out.

"There's a secret cupboard there, about the same size as the one in my room. One of the drawers in this large cabinet doesn't go all the way back, you see. It's pretty clever, because from the front it's almost impossible to judge how deep the drawers are. And you can't see the little keyhole on the side unless you're looking for it. I've been in here a million times, and I never noticed it."

King shot her a glance. "So you didn't know Bobby had a secret drawer?"

Remmy looked like a woman who'd realized far too late that she'd said far too much.

"No, I didn't," she said.

"What was stolen?"

"What does it matter?" she snapped. "I know what was stolen out of mine."

"Remmy, you mean you don't know what Bobby kept in there?" asked King.

She didn't answer for a long moment. When she did, her tone was far more subdued.

"No, I don't."

CHAPTER 17

"OKAY," SAID MICHELLE ONCE they'd left the house. "A psychiatrist could write an entire textbook on just Savannah and Remmy's relationship."

"Her not knowing what was in Bobby's secret drawer is bugging the hell out of the woman," said King as he glanced back at the mansion.

"And while her closet was all broken up, Bobby's wasn't. That's significant."

"Right. The person knew where Bobby's secret cache was but didn't have the key to open it."

Before leaving the house they'd spoken with Mason and the other household help. Their answers were incredibly consistent: they'd all been in the house in the rear grounds and had seen and heard nothing when the burglary occurred.

King and Michelle got in the car, but instead of leaving, King steered his Lexus down the asphalt road leading to the rear of the property.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"I met Sally Wainwright, the woman who handles the stables, at a horse event last year. Let's see if she saw and heard nothing that night too."

Sally was in her mid-twenties, cute, petite but wiry with long brown hair that she kept in a ponytail. She was mucking a stall when King and Michelle drove up. She wiped the sweat from her face with a cloth and came over to the car.

"You probably don't remember me," began King. "I spent the day with you at the charity dressage event in Charlottesville last year."

Sally smiled broadly. "Of course, I remember you, Sean." She glanced at Michelle. "You and Ms. Maxwell here are pretty famous now."

"Or infamous," replied King. He looked around at the stables and horses. "So do many of the Battles still ride?" he asked.

"Dorothea never has. Eddie does quite a bit. He's into Civil War reenactments and has to saddle up sometimes in those."

"Are you into that?" asked Michelle.

Sally laughed. "I'm from Arizona. I could care less about the Civil War."

"I see Savannah 's home. She used to ride in competition, didn't she?" asked King.

A slight look of annoyance crossed Sally's face. "She used to." King waited expectantly to see if Sally would put a defining exclamation point on that comment.

"She's a great rider. Not so handy with mucking, grooming and dealing with people who didn't grow up with silver spoons in their mouths." Sally suddenly looked scared as though she'd spoken out of turn.

"Not to worry, Sally," said King supportively. "I know just what you mean." He paused and added, "Does Mrs. Battle ride?"

"I've been here five years, and she hasn't saddled up once in that time." Sally leaned on her muck rake. "I saw you drive in earlier. You just visiting?"

King told her why they were there, and Sally's brow clouded as she anxiously glanced in the direction of the main house.

"I don't know anything about that," she said.

"So you were in your house with Mason and the rest the whole time, I suppose."

"Right," she said. "I go to sleep early. Have to get up at the crack of dawn."