“Melania? She no say.”

“Yes, don’t you recall? I’m here to see that everything is in order, for the memorial luncheon! Giovanni would be so proud!” Mary snapped her fingers at another florist, passing with a huge bouquet of pink gladiola. “Stop right there! Those go in the living room, behind you!” She referred to the layout of the house to bolster her feeble credibility in a job no one had heard of, because it didn’t exist. “And put them right by the fireplace, with the stone mantel. On that mahogany end table, like Melania wants!”

“Oh, sorry!” the young florist said, then turned around, but the maid was following Mary like a hound dog. It wasn’t going to be that easy.

“What you say your name is?”

“Rikki Broughley.” Well, it had worked before. “Didn’t Melania mention me? No?” Mary didn’t wait for the answer. “We’ve been working together, I guess she wanted to keep it to herself. Some people feel that it’s unseemly, planning for the death of a loved one, but we must be realistic, mustn’t we? Poor Giovanni, she loved him so. She must have cried her pretty blue eyes out. I was with her the night before he died, you know. She was a wreck, even in that great white blouse! And she still found time to work out!”

The maid listened, her head cocked.

“And Justin, he will be so upset, too. All those investments to look out for, all on his own now. Buy, sell! Sell, buy!” Mary was running out of inside information. “How’s Justin holding up?”

“He fine.”

“And Chico? He’ll be strong for everyone. He’s a rock, isn’t he?”

“Fine, too.” Finally, the maid seemed to relax a little. “I no like Chico,” she whispered, leaning over. “He mean.”

You’re telling me. “Now, dear, everyone has their good points!” Mary said lightly. The key to good funeral planning was saying everything lightly. She was getting the hang of it.

“Not Chico. No good point.” The maid shook her head. “He plain mean.”

“Okay, well, gotta go! Gotta get everything in place before they return!” Mary grabbed the sleeve of a caterer’s helper bearing a mounded tray of crudités with dill dressing, then plucked a bright carrot from the bowl and bit it with a loud crunch. “Perfect!” she announced and shooed the caterer into the dining room before she turned back to the maid. “Will you make sure they don’t start the coffee yet, in the kitchen? I don’t want it to burn! And come to me if they give you an ounce of trouble!”

“Okay, sure,” the maid said, turning back toward the kitchen.

Mary hustled into the living room, where florists were setting tasteful flower arrangements on the various side tables that had seemed so vacant before. She made only the corrections that would be obvious to anyone with a law degree. She moved a vase of calla lilies to the right, and her gaze fell on a closed door, off to the right. If the bedrooms were upstairs, what could that be? Maybe a den or a home office? That could be helpful. She edged toward the paneled door, and after a florist had plunked down the last gladiola and left the living room, she opened the door, slipped inside, and closed it behind her.

Mary found herself in a large den, lined with light-pine magazine racks, displaying rack after rack of fashion magazines. Cosmo, People, W, Vogue, Vanity Fair, even an array of British magazines like Hello! and Tattler. A flowery print sofa and two soft chairs in one corner clustered around a decidedly non-funereal display of white daisies. An array of silver-framed photographs adorned a large, whitewashed desk of ersatz antique pine. It was clearly a girl home office and of someone who didn’t work. Melania. Not helpful. But it suggested there was a boy office, too. Giovanni’s.

Mary cracked the door, peeked out to make sure the coast was clear, and slipped back into the living room. Just then another deliveryman entered the room with a huge vase of red roses, and she put up a hand. “Stop! Take that arrangement right back to the dining room!” she began to say, then caught herself. “No, wait! Come with me!” She stalled a moment, eyeing the living room for another paneled door. On the other side. There!

“This way!” Mary strode to the paneled door and opened it, ushering the florist inside, as she looked quickly around. Dark blue walls, navy leather couches and chairs, and the faint odor of cigars clinging to navy-striped curtains. It was a home office, apparently Saracone’s. Mahogany bookshelves held a few books, various photos, and a black custom entertainment center and television, directly across from a matching mahogany desk. She itched to get at that desk. Why would Saracone have paid so much to Frank in legal fees? There had to be legal files somewhere, or an explanation.

Mary pointed at the desk. “Please set those roses by the phone, to soften the effect, no?”

“Whatever,” said the man, obviously unentranced by her horticultural wizardry. He tramped in untied Timberlands to the desk, plunked down the vase, and walked out of the room, leaving Mary inside. She closed the door and locked it with the thumbscrew, just to be sure. She hurried across the thick carpet, almost tripping over an AstroTurf putting green, then went around the desk, and opened the top drawer.

It was full of pens, almost all of them black Montblancs, and next to the Montblanc logjam was dirty loose change and paper clips. Not probative. Mary opened the top right drawer and found it full of papers, which she rifled through. StrayAmex bills, from two years ago, Mobil gas receipts, an anniversary card from Melania, and cash machine tapes. Saracone obviously hadn’t used the desk in a long time, which Mary guessed was to be expected, but why keep this crap? She had the feeling of a businessman carrying an empty briefcase, for show.

She opened the Amex bill and scanned the charges. Morton’s Steakhouse, Ruth Chris, the Palm; an array of carnivorous restaurants. How did Saracone pay for these meals, this house, and this wife? She opened the next drawer. More of same, with photos besides, of a young Justin in front of a Christmas tree, then in a Boy Scout uniform, and finally in a graduation gown. She switched sides to the next set of drawers and it looked more promising. Financial statements, from a PNC brokerage account in his name only. Mary’s eyes widened at the first balance – a whopping $19,347,943. Jeez!

She went to the next balance sheet, which read $18,384,494. The other balance sheets went back three years, all in a neat, chronological stack with a three-hole punch on the left side. Twenty mil and change, ten mil, eighteen mil; the balances fluctuated with the market, but the account always hovered in the extremely healthy twenty-to twenty-five-million-dollar range. Wow! Where did Saracone get all that money? The deposits didn’t tell the source, just the amounts, and a quick glance suggested they occurred twice a year. Mary went to the next drawer.

More of the same. Bank checkbooks, at least five of them, with a stack of canceled checks stacked behind like bricks. She grabbed the first check register and opened it. The entries read PECO, Verizon, PGW, Time magazine, the Inquirer; the amounts were higher than hers, but otherwise it looked like her own checkbook. No checks to Giorno amp; Cavuto. Was there a business checkbook? There were only a few deposits; again, no source, just a modest amount. Hmm. She continued ransacking.

Behind the registers was an array of mutual fund accounts with amazingly high balances. In the $30 million range, with deposits twice a year, but there was no indication of where all this money came from. Just then Mary heard a noise outside the door and froze. The door remained untried. She had to hurry. She closed the drawer and opened the next. More mutual fund accounts from an array of houses; Merrill Lynch, Smith Barney, and other institutions. But the dates on these reports were older – 1982, 1983, 1984 – so the money had been made a long time ago. How much could Saracone be worth now? Where would the recent records be? She double-checked the top; the address on the sheets wasn’t the home address like the more recent accounts, but an address downtown under the account name: Saracone Investments, Inc.