Molly Renquist looked up as her secretary, Lindsey, opened the office door and poked her pretty head in. “Got time to see a lady who doesn’t have an appointment?”

Molly frowned. “Do you know what it’s about?”

“She says she wants you to look into her sister’s death.”

Glancing at her calendar and then her watch, Molly nodded. “Send her in.”

A moment later, Lindsey returned, followed by a tall, beautiful young Latina with lustrous black hair that fell to her shoulders in a rippling cascade. She wore low-heeled pumps and a pale blue dress that failed to hide her voluptuous curves. Other than the small golden hoops in her ears, she wore no jewelry and very little makeup, yet her appearance was striking. Molly reflected that the woman seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place her. Reaching across the desk, she offered her hand and said, “Please have a seat.”

The woman sat on the edge of the comfortable leather chair that had stood in their family room before Tom’s death. Afterward, the sight of it in the house was too painful, but Molly couldn’t bring herself to part with it.

The young woman leaned forward, crossing her ankles, and said softly, in hesitant but grammatical English, “I am Rosa Maria Esmeralda Hernandez. My family has not much money, but I have brought as much as we have. Will you find out why my sister died?”

“What were you told?”

“That she killed herself. They say she was sad because she could not have a child, but that is something she’s known for many years.”

That struck Molly as odd. Had the sister suffered some gross abnormality from birth? Had there been an accident or serious disease? “Was there an autopsy?” she asked.

“Yes, but they will not let us see what they found. The judge has — how do you call it? — sealed the records.”

That piqued Molly’s interest. “And what was your sister’s name?”

“Ramona Wiley.” She looked up as though expecting Molly to recognize the name. “Ramona,” she repeated with emphasis.

Molly started. “The Ramona? The singer and actress?”

The young woman nodded, her wide dark eyes filled with sadness, and Molly realized why she’d seemed familiar. There was a strong resemblance to her famous late sister, who had been known by a single name. If Rosa were wearing an expensive gown, diamonds dangling from her ears and throat, and had enjoyed the services of a professional makeup artist and hairdresser, she could be Ramona’s double.

Ramona’s name had been in the news lately. About a month earlier, her body had been discovered in bed by the housekeeper one morning. As Molly recalled, the husband — who was also her manager and agent — had been out of town at the time, and the medical examiner, James Pearson, had ruled her death a suicide. Molly knew Pearson well. He was a man of unquestionable integrity, and she couldn’t imagine him being less than honest about the case.

Of course, the tabloids had had a field day presenting bizarre speculations, pointing out that her husband was sole heir to a mega-million dollar empire, but the police had quickly ruled him out as a suspect, and the medical examiner had taken the unusual step of holding a press conference to emphasize that the actress’s death had been self-inflicted.

“I wasn’t aware there was any doubt as to the cause of your sister’s death,” Molly said softly. “What exactly do you want me to investigate?”

A spark of anger came into Rosa’s eyes. “My sister would not kill herself. She was a devout Catholic, and she was happy since she came to America. I must know what really happened.” As Rosa became more emotional, her accent thickened.

Molly frowned. “I seem to remember the papers saying she’d been depressed lately.”

“She was upset about something. She called me two days before — before it happened. She was crying — said that she had learned something terrible. But she wouldn’t tell me what it was. She said it was better I didn’t know. I asked her if her marriage was in trouble. Hollywood, you know. Marriages don’t last long here — not like at home.”

Rosa paused to extract a white lace handkerchief from her purse and dabbed her eyes. “She said — and these are her words — ‘My marriage is over. There is no way to repair this.’”

“But she never said what the problem was?”

Miss Hernandez shook her head. “I thought maybe Tony was cheating on her, but she said Tony was not the cause of her troubles. Then she said a strange thing — that it concerned a monstruosidad, a monstrosity. She would not say more.”

“A monstrosity?” Molly asked. “That seems an odd word to use.”

“Not so odd,” Rosa said quietly. She swallowed hard. “There is something you need to know.” She drew a deep breath and looked down at her hands, which were now clasped tightly in her lap.

Molly sensed the girl was going through an inner struggle. What did she think was so terrible she couldn’t bring herself to talk about it? “It’s all right,” she said gently. “I used to be a police officer. I don’t think you can tell me anything I haven’t heard before.”

Rosa hesitated and cleared her throat. “Ramona and I come from a small village in Mexico. Our family is very large. We have fifteen brothers and sisters, many aunts and uncles, and even more cousins. Before Ramona came to Hollywood, we were very poor.”

She swallowed again — hard this time — and seemed to be struggling to force the next words out of her mouth. “Our family is cursed.”

Molly realized Rosa was waiting to see how her words would be taken, and she tried to keep her expression as neutral as possible. Finally the woman went on.

“It began long ago. Our great-grandmother stole her girlfriend’s man. Ever since then, our family has produced few boys — in Mexico, that means fewer people who can make money. Even worse, many of the girls never receive the sign — you know, the sign of womanhood.” The young woman seemed to shrink in her chair as she spoke. “The sign is very important in our culture. A girl is treated like a princess when it comes. But for some of us, it never arrives. We become like unpaid servants to the others. No man will marry us, for we cannot have children, and no one will care for us when we grow old. There are eleven girls in our family and five of us, including Ramona and myself, have been stricken.” She bowed her head and murmured, “Our mother always said she could tell which girls were cursed, even when we were very young.”

“How could she do that?”

“She told us we had lost a precious gift, so God gave us another. She said all of her cursed daughters were” — her lovely mouth twisted into a grimace — “beautiful. I always thought that was” — she hesitated, looking for the right word — “ironico — a badjoke. No man wants to marry us, so what good is it to be beautiful?”

“But Ramona married,” Molly pointed out.

“I believe that was more of a business deal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Almost eight years ago, Anthony Wiley came to our village — I’ve never been sure why. It was during the festival of Our Lady of Guadalupe. There was feasting and celebration, much dancing and singing in the evenings, and a most beautiful church service on the morning of the feast day — flowers and candles everywhere. Even as a child, Ramona had a lovely voice and she was asked to sing on such occasions, and so Tony Wiley heard her. He came to my parents and said that Ramona could make a lot of money if she would come with him to Hollywood. My father said that he would allow such a thing only if she were married.”

She paused and her voice softened. “He didn’t tell Tony about the curse. It was wrong of my father, of course, but you have to understand. He was facing having to support five unmarried daughters for the rest of his life, and Tony was talking about amounts of money we could not even dream of. Such money would make a great difference for our whole family. You can’t really blame my father. Besides, Ramona was sixteen and she wanted very much to leave our village and live in a city with bright lights. So arrangements were made, there was a ceremony at our little church, and Ramona left. Within a year, she was sending us money — enough for my parents to buy a bigger house and for the little ones to go to school. Everyone learned to speak English — Ramona said that was important. We got a telephone and she called us every week.”

“And she seemed happy?” Molly asked.

“Oh, very! She missed us, of course, but she told us about her beautiful clothes, and the wonderful house they had, and all the servants who waited on her. All she had to do was look glamorous and sing. She wanted me to come to America and live with them, but I told her I couldn’t sing, and no one was offering to marry me.”

Rosa stared into her lap, and a tear trickled down her cheek. “I should have gone. Maybe I could have protected her.”

“Protected her from what?” Molly asked. “Hollywood? The family curse?”

The young woman flushed. “I know it sounds foolish to you, but if you could see my family — all my relatives on my mother’s side — you could not dismiss it so easily. Ever since my great-grandmother sinned, our family has suffered. I ask only that you find out what you can.” She stood up. “What do I have to pay you?”

Molly looked at her. Though she was tall, there was an air of fragility about her, and Molly couldn’t help thinking of an orphaned child, though Rosa was obviously neither an orphan nor a child. The family had been receiving money from their wealthy daughter, but now that Ramona was dead, that might not continue, and Molly was not inclined to ask for more than the family could afford. “Write me a check for one dollar now. That will make you officially my client. We’ll come to reasonable terms later.”

Rosa hesitated, and Molly wondered whether the young woman distrusted the promises of Americans on principle. Then she realized that if the Hernandezes had a bank account, it would be in Mexico. “A dollar bill will be fine. I’ll give you a receipt.”

After Rosa left, Molly instructed Lindsey to get on the computer and dig out everything she could find about Ramona, her early career, her husband, any rumors, and the details of her demise. Then she called Danny McRae, her best operative, and instructed him to look into Tony Wiley’s friends, finances, and possible secret relationships with other women. “And see what you can find out about Ramona’s medical history. Was she ever treated for depression?” Molly knew that such matters, usually confidential, were best discovered from women friends, and Danny was good at that. “And talk to her hairdresser, her voice coach, everyone who worked with her.”

Then she looked up the phone number of Anthony Wiley.

That evening Molly sat on a dainty Victorian gold-leaf chair in the enormous living room of Wiley’s plush Bel Aire mansion. As a uniformed maid poured coffee from a silver urn into a fine china cup, Molly looked around and wondered what a sixteen-year-old girl from rural Mexico must have thought and felt when she first entered this house. Had she any notion how much that marble-topped table and those oriental carpets cost?

Across from her in a brocade Italian love seat, Tony Wiley cleared his throat. He was a small, tanned man with a receding hairline and a thin moustache that made him look as though he’d stepped out of a movie from the 1930s. “So you’re investigating my wife’s death,” he said in a slightly nasal tone. “Who hired you?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

He studied her in silence for a moment, then said, “Her family?” He shook his head. “I paid for all of them to attend the funeral. I had the medical examiner speak with them personally. They’re all very religious, and I knew her suicide would be hard on them. I thought they understood.”

“Apparently they still have some questions,” Molly said. She watched the small man stiffen at her words, and decided to approach the matter obliquely. She took a sip of her coffee. “Tell me how you discovered her.”

Wiley’s steel-gray eyes appraised her as he bit his lower lip. Finally he said, “I’m a deal-maker, Ms. Renquist. I live in a world of phones, fax machines, and unending stress. Eight years ago, I was a physical wreck. My blood pressure was soaring; I had constant migraines. My doctor advised me to get away, so I took a month off — rented a little house in rural Mexico. Only my secretary knew how to reach me, and she had orders not to, unless it was a question of life or death.”

He leaned back in the love seat and clasped his carefully manicured hands across his stomach. “By the third week I was bored silly, and upon the advice of the local cantina owner, I went to a tiny village to observe the celebration of the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. There, in a small adobe church, I heard Ramona sing. She was a child with the body of a woman and the voice of an angel. I knew I had a fortune in the making.”

“So you married this child?” Molly tried hard not to let animosity creep into her voice.

Wiley shrugged. “It was the only way her father would let me take her to the U.S.” He glanced toward the leaded-glass windows, then back at Molly, his gray eyes steady. “As I said, I’m a deal-maker, and in my world, marriage is just another deal. I assume you’ll be poking around in my life, so I won’t claim to have been entirely faithful to her, but my affairs have been very discreet, and she never knew about them.” He sighed. “I treated Ramona very well, Ms. Renquist. Ask anyone.”

Molly fully intended to, but said nothing. Instead, she asked, “Did Ramona ever tell you she believed she was cursed?”

“Ah yes, the family curse. She told me about it years ago. I chalked it up to silly superstition at the time.” He stared into the distance and said softly, “But it was real. Not that anyone could do anything about it.”

“Is that the reason the autopsy results were sealed?”

He straightened, the lines in his face deepened, and his voice became hard. “The results of the autopsy are entirely a private matter.” He stood up and indicated the door. “I believe this discussion is over.”

Back in her car, Molly tried to sort out her impressions. She usually trusted her gut, for over the years she’d discovered that it was pretty accurate. But she didn’t have a clear take on Wiley. He was hiding something; that was for sure. On the other hand, Molly had caught genuine emotional overtones in his voice when he spoke about Ramona. She flashed back to those dark days right after the brain tumor had taken Tom. The sudden emptiness of the house, the stab of pain brought by catching sight of her wedding ring, her reluctance to take it off.

She’d glanced at Wiley’s left hand before leaving. The golden band was still there. Wiley was genuinely grieving, but was it for his wife or for the loss of a further fortune?

The next morning Lindsey greeted Molly as she entered the office. Her brown eyes were flashing with excitement, and she carried a notebook and a manila folder.

“Here’s all the stuff I got on Ramona, boss.” She glanced at the first page of the notebook. “She came on the scene a little more than six and a half years ago when she recorded a bunch of Mexican ballads in Spanish. She’s described as ‘barely eighteen, shy, speaking broken English.’ In the interviews from that time, her husband, who was also her agent and manager, did most of the talking for her.”

Lindsey looked up. “But she must have been a quick study, because less than two years later, she was described as ‘confident,’ even ‘bubbly,’ and ‘speaking fluent English.’ She was singing more popular tunes, appearing on television, and doing personal tours. When she was twenty-two, she made her first movie. The tabloids didn’t have a bad thing to say about her. Their only complaint was that the husband kept the paparazzi at a distance.” She turned the page in her notebook. “And just two months ago, she landed the position of spokesperson for Dazzle Cosmetics. They were going to call her ‘The Quintessential Woman.’”

“Pretty heady stuff for a poor girl from rural Mexico,” Molly said.

Lindsey nodded. “As for the husband, he’s got an ex-wife who says only that he worked too much and cheated on her a couple of times. She claims they had an amicable divorce — I took that to mean she got a good settlement. There were no kids. I couldn’t uncover any gossip about other women. The servants say Ramona and Tony got along, although one of the maids thought Tony acted more like a father than a husband.”

Molly interrupted. “Rosa mentioned that her sister said something about her marriage being over. Any chance that she was thinking of ending it? If so, Tony would have had a lot to lose.”

Lindsey frowned. “I didn’t think to ask, but” — she thumbed through her notes until she found what she was looking for — “both the housekeeper and the personal maid said Ramona didn’t appear to be angry with Tony. In fact, the maid specifically said that her attitude was apologetic. And she also told me that he didn’t appear to be angry, either. He seemed to be trying to comfort her, but nobody has any idea about what. I got the clear impression that all the servants loved her. Most of them are Hispanic and they appreciated that Ramona spoke their language. Apparently she frequently gave them gifts and told them stories about her family. They said she was like one of them.”

Molly considered. Had Ramona, against all odds, become pregnant and lost the baby early on? That might account for her depression and Tony’s efforts to comfort her. But if she’d become pregnant once, there was at least hope it might happen again — and why should it mean the end of her marriage? “What were you able to find out about her death?” she asked.

Lindsey shook her head, making her brown curls tumble about her face. “They were all pretty tight-lipped. Only the housekeeper was willing to talk to me about that day, and she was adamant that Señor Wiley must not find out. I gather everyone was warned about reporters.”

Molly nodded. “And what did the housekeeper say?”

“She said Ramona was not herself earlier that week. She seemed preoccupied and upset. She wasn’t eating. But the day before her death she appeared to be much better — ‘at peace,’ were her exact words. That’s why the housekeeper said it was such a shock to find her dead the next morning.”

Molly interrupted. “It’s a common phenomenon. When a person finally makes the decision to commit suicide, others perceive a calmness about them and mistakenly think they’re getting better.”

Lindsey nodded. “Also, there was a bottle of vodka in her room. The housekeeper said she’d never seen liquor there before — that in fact, the señora seldom drank, and then only a glass or two of wine when they had dinner guests.”

“Any indication what was on her mind?”

“Uh-uh. The servants wouldn’t feel it was their place to ask, but both the housekeeper and the personal maid agreed that something was wrong.”

Molly frowned. “How did it happen that the housekeeper found her instead of the personal maid?”

“Now that’s another interesting thing,” Lindsey said. “The maid’s quite young, probably still in her teens. Her name is Carmen, and she’s from Hermosillo. The morning before she died, Ramona gave the girl money and told her to go visit her parents.” Lindsey looked up, brows raised. “Do you think she didn’t want the girl to be the one who found her?”

Molly considered. “It certainly looks that way.” She told Lindsay to put a call in to the medical examiner. Then she took the manila folder, which contained copies of some of the articles her secretary had collected as well as photographs of Ramona that had been taken over the years. Placing the pictures in chronological order across the top of her desk, Molly saw the transformation of a shy young woman into a Hollywood personality. The earliest photo was of a pretty Latina, no more than a child, with an air of barely concealed bewilderment in her dark eyes. From left to right, the pictures showed a progression. Ramona had become more confident, comfortable with the aura of glamour. She’d learned how to woo the camera. In the most recent photo, she wore a hot-pink sequined strapless gown that displayed her cleavage favorably. Her signature diamonds dangled at her ears and throat; her head tilted slightly to the right, and her full luscious lips displayed a mischievous smile. The note on the back indicated the picture had been a preliminary shot for the “Quintessential Woman” campaign.

Molly stared at the wide brown eyes looking out of the picture. Where was the girl who’d grown up with a curse upon her? Was she still in there, afraid, ashamed, alone?

Awhile later, Danny McRae came into the office. A small man with a boyish face and sandy hair, Danny was blessed with the best characteristic an investigator could have: People didn’t particularly notice him, and when they did, they never felt threatened. He had a gift for getting others to confide in him. He sat down and whipped out his notebook, but he didn’t bother to look at it. Danny had a photographic memory.

“What did you find out?” Molly asked.

He grinned, momentarily exposing the small gap between his two front teeth. “First, Wiley’s friends. He doesn’t have many — not social friends, anyhow. They all seemed to be business associates. Their stories match closely, however. They agree that Wiley and his wife were more like agent and client or father and daughter than lovers, but they all said he respected and protected Ramona. A couple of them told me they assumed he had other female interests, but no one knew anything for certain. It seems Tony Wiley was unusually circumspect for someone in the Hollywood life.”

Danny closed his green eyes for a moment, as though he were reading the inside of his eyelids. “He uses a very reputable accounting agency, and the scuttlebutt is that there’s nothing funny going on. He managed all of Ramona’s money, and a couple of deals went south, but apparently they were legitimate investments. The upshot is that she made a lot of money and he made the money grow.

“As for her medical history, I was able to find out that she had a couple of recent appointments with a Dr. Hugh Blackman — a gynecologist who specializes in infertility problems. It seems she saw him shortly after she and Tony were married, and some fairly minor procedure was done at that time. No indication what she saw him about lately. Otherwise, she avoided doctors. Except for a couple of sore throats over the years, she’s been very healthy.”

Molly digested that information for a minute, and then said, “But for some reason she recently decided to see not just any doctor, but an infertility specialist. This from a woman who supposedly has known for years that she’s infertile.” She turned to Danny and explained, “Her family blames it on a curse.”

He blinked and shrugged. “Maybe she’d been in the U.S. long enough to stop believing in curses. Maybe she just wanted to know why she couldn’t have children.”

Molly nodded. “Why don’t you get friendly with one of Dr. Blackman’s nurses? Don’t ask about Ramona specifically, but inquire about some of the unusual genetic reasons for female infertility. Ask if they’ve seen any such cases lately.”

As he headed for the door, Molly added, “And check out the backgrounds of the servants and anyone else who might have had access to the house that night.”

As Danny was leaving, Lindsey buzzed to say the medical examiner was on the line. Molly picked up and said, “Hey, Jim.”

“What can I do for you, Molly?”

“I know you did the autopsy on Ramona Wiley.”

He drew an audible breath. “Those records have been sealed. I can’t discuss them with you.”

“I realize that. But you did have a press conference regarding the case. You said it was definitely suicide.”

“No doubt about it, Molly. Pills and liquor. If you’re wondering whether someone else killed her, you’re wasting your time.”

“Can you tell me whether you know why she killed herself?”

Silence. At last he said, “She didn’t leave a note, if that’s what you mean.”

Molly persisted. “But you do know why?”

“I can’t talk about it, Molly. It’s just tragic.”

“Doesn’t her family have the right to know?”

He sighed. “The situation is complex, and it’s not my decision. The court has ruled.”

“One last question,” Molly said. “Was she dying?”

“No. She was healthy as a horse.”

Molly hung up and buried her face in her hands. What on earth could be so terrible as to make Ramona kill herself, and why was it so important that it be kept secret?

Rosa called that afternoon, her voice pleading and impatient. “Have you learned anything?”

Molly drew a deep breath and considered how best to word what she had to say. “So far, Miss Hernandez, there’s no indication that your sister was murdered.”

“So you found nothing?” she asked.

“On the contrary.” Molly tried to keep her voice mild. “Everything we’ve discovered points to her suicide.”

There was a long silence on the phone, so long that she wondered whether Rosa had simply left the phone off the hook and walked away. But at last she said, “If my sister really did kill herself, I need to know why.”

Molly assured her that she and her staff were still working on it.

That night Molly fell asleep on the sofa listening to Ramona’s CDs. Her voice was soft and throaty in the low registers, clear and crystalline in the upper ones. Both carried an undertone of wisdom and sorrow that tugged at heart strings. Molly dreamed of a small dark-eyed girl who whispered sadly, “There is no escape.”

In the morning, Danny dropped a sheaf of papers on her desk. “First, all of the servants checked out. The housekeeper was the only one in the place the night Ramona died, and she’s clean. They’ve got a state-of-the-art burglar system, and the housekeeper swears she set it that night, so no one else could have broken in.”

He looked at her with tired eyes. “I did what you told me to. Made friends with Blackman’s nurse. She was eager to tell me that Blackman treated a lot of celebrities, and that Ramona was one of them. I tried to be as casual as possible and suggested that the singer and her husband might be trying to start a family. She said she couldn’t tell me, of course. That was confidential. But she admitted she’d been curious herself, and tried to peek into Ramona’s medical records, and here’s the strange thing: The records were never returned to the files after her visits. Blackman must have kept them.”

“Why would he do that?”

“That’s what I asked. She said sometimes he holds onto them in order to consult with another doctor, but she didn’t think that was the reason, because even after Ramona’s death, the records never showed up.”

Molly frowned. “So what did you do?”

“I’d convinced her I was a journalist doing research on the causes of infertility, and she gave me a lot of references. I spent the night on the Internet. The results are in front of you. I think the pages on top have the answer, although the first time through, I overlooked that condition. It didn’t seem to apply. Later I got to thinking and I reconsidered.”

“So?”

He grinned widely. “It’s complicated. Read for yourself.”

She spent the next hour reading and rereading the tract he’d found, trying to assimilate the scientific aspects. Then she looked through the rest of the material Danny had collected and came to the conclusion that he was right. She was pretty sure she now knew why Ramona killed herself and why Tony had hushed it up. But she needed to speak with Wiley to make certain. She glanced at the clock on her desk. Rosa was due in a couple of hours.

Molly found Tony Wiley in his luxurious fourteenth-floor office. His secretary insisted Mr. Wiley couldn’t be disturbed, but Molly pushed past her. She found him behind a huge cherrywood desk piled with manila folders, the phone ringing, the fax machine spewing out paper. He looked up, annoyed, and said, “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Okay. Just listen,” Molly said. “I think I know everything anyway. You see, I’ve learned about AIS.”

He paled and waved at the secretary who was still standing in the doorway, looking apologetic. “Hold all my calls, Christine.” To Molly, he said, “Sit down.” He waited.

She drew a deep breath and began. “You first took Ramona to Dr. Blackman shortly after you were married. I assume she had some difficulty with her — shall we say — wifely duties?”

He looked irritated. “Blackman said she had a birth defect, easily corrected with a nonsurgical procedure, which he performed. At the time, I assumed that was what the so-called curse was about.”

“Did he say anything else? Recommend further tests?”

“As a matter of fact,” he said slowly, “he did. He took me aside and said that he suspected she had a rare genetic condition. That there might be a small increased possibility of cancer. He wanted to do more tests. He said even if the tests were positive, relatively minor surgery could prevent the cancer. But when I explained this to Ramona, she was adamant. No more doctors, no tests, and above all, no surgery. You have to understand she grew up in circumstances where people rarely consulted doctors. They were associated with death.”

“And she wasn’t worried about cancer?”

Wiley shook his head. “She said there were lots of women in her family who had the same condition and none of them had ever gotten cancer.”

“I assume something changed lately that made her go back to Blackman.”

He chewed on his lower lip. “She didn’t tell me she’d made an appointment. I found out her hairdresser was diagnosed with breast cancer a couple of months ago. That’s probably what started her worrying.”

“And this time the doctor did the tests and told her she had AIS.”

Tony Wiley covered his eyes with his hands. “Damn fool doctor,” he muttered. “He should have told me, too. I should have been with her, but I had no idea.”

“So how did you find out?”

“She told me. She was in tears, freaked out, actually. I said it didn’t matter. She was the same person she’d always been. I wasn’t going to divorce her.”

Molly was surprised. “You would have stayed married, knowing?”

He shrugged. “Hey, this is Hollywood. Unconventional marriages are common. Besides, she was easy to get along with.” He paused.

“Also, she made a lot of money for you, and you managed to have your affairs on the side.”

He colored and his voice became sharper. “You make me sound crass. Whether you believe it or not, I cared about Ramona. I did my best to assure her nothing would change. I would never have gone out of town if I’d realized she was still so upset. But after a few days, she seemed to calm down. We had already made an appointment with a therapist — we were going to work everything out. She actually appeared happy the day I left.” He put his elbows on his desk and his head in his hands. “What are you going to do?” he mumbled.

“I have to meet with Rosa this afternoon.”

“You can’t tell her!” He looked up at Molly, his face actually livid.

“Don’t you think she and her family have a right to know? What about the other ‘cursed’ sisters?”

He stood up. “Consider the consequences! How do you think their families and neighbors will treat them if it comes out? Those people don’t have access to therapists to help them deal with such information! At least now, they have a place in their society, albeit a lesser one. But if you tell them—” He broke off.

His passion surprised Molly. He’d obviously given the matter a lot of thought. And he had a point. But her client was paying her to discover the truth. What was the right thing to do?

Molly was still agonizing when Rosa arrived in her office late that afternoon. The young Latina sat down in Tom’s old chair and looked at Molly apprehensively. “What have you found out?”

Molly studied the beautiful woman and pain shot through her heart. Rosa looked so much like her famous sister had when she first came to the U.S. It was almost as though Molly were speaking to the younger Ramona. The thought struck her: What if she had had the chance to prevent the singer from discovering she had AIS?

“I wish I could answer all your questions, but all I can tell you is that Ramona definitely took her own life. There is no possibility of foul play.”

“But why?” Sorrow and disbelief were evident in her face.

“I’m afraid she chose to keep her reasons to herself.” Molly felt a stab of guilt as she spoke the words which were not entirely true. Yet Ramona had chosen not to tell her family that she and her beautiful sisters, aunts, and nieces had inherited androgen insensitivity syndrome — that their lush bodies, genetically programmed to be male, were producing plenty of testosterone, but a broken gene on their X chromosomes prevented the hormone from doing its job. Molly didn’t explain that nature, in fickle efficiency, had been converting the useless testosterone into estrogen since they’d been in their mother’s wombs, altering their physical development so that by the time of birth they appeared to be normal, healthy little girls, when in fact they were highly feminized males.

Rosa looked pensive. “I have been doing much thinking. Perhaps Hollywood was the worst place for Ramona to live. Here there is so much fuss made about celebrity women who are having babies — even when they aren’t married. They show off their big tummies like — how do you say? — trophies. Maybe — maybe Ramona worried they would wonder why she and Tony didn’t have any children. Maybe she felt like a fraud being called ‘The Quintessential Woman.’”

Molly held her breath, stunned. Rosa had come dangerously close to the truth.

The woman reached into her purse to pay Molly’s fee, but the investigator waved her protests off. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be more helpful.” After Rosa left, Molly leaned back in her chair and reflected that she couldn’t have accepted a fee when she was withholding vital information. Yet, in some strange way, she felt a much deeper obligation to Ramona — a woman she’d never met but whose recorded voice would always haunt her.

In a year of three emperors, my father had the bad judgment to champion publicly the cause of the second emperor and his bad judgment was compounded by a stubborn honor that would not allow him to recant when the besieging armies of the third emerged victorious.

On the first day of his trial, when it became evident that a verdict of treason would be passed against him, my father came home from court, added new codicils to his will, and wrote several letters. Then, kissing me tenderly and bidding farewell to his weeping household, he retired to his inner chamber to open his veins, for by law the property of a man convicted of treason is forfeited to the state; yet if he dies before such a verdict is rendered, he may dispose of his estate as he sees fit.

In thus anticipating the inevitability of his death, my father secured our inheritance.

My mother took this opportunity to end her own existence as well. That poor sickly lady had exhausted her life adhering to the old republican ideals of womanhood, mater and domina. She should have been the vestal instead of my aunt Statilia, who hid in a clothespress when the escort came to deliver her to the chief pontiff.

As the name AEelia Tertia plainly shows, I was the third daughter of AElius Fabius Marius, the only girl child to live past a first birthday. Each of the eight years between my single brother and myself had been marked by funeral rites for pathetic little scraps of humanity that never quite caught the breath of life; and although my mother sacrificed daily to all the goddesses of maternity, those annual beginnings of life which continued after my birth never again quickened into fruition.

My brother she handed over to pedagogues and tutors without a murmur, at the earliest possible age, that he should study all the usual subjects and be trained in martial arts and skills. One of her ancestors had been a general under Augustus, and during the reign of the deified Claudius, another had been part of the raid on Germania that recovered the lost eagles of Varus. Willingly had she dedicated the first locks of my brother’s hair to Mars, god of war.

In the matter of my education, however, she found the energy to resist my father almost to the point of disobedience, for she wished me to learn traditional virtues and to keep me ignorant of everything save spinning and weaving and ordering a household for my husband’s comfort.

“Have I not lived twenty-seven years without rhetoric and philosophy?” cried my mother. “What need has our daughter for aught beyond simple reading and enough ciphering to keep her servants from cheating her in the markets?”

“You have often praised my uniqueness,” Father said drily. “Should not AElia know how to manage her own property in case Marcus Porcius proves less the paragon for her than I have been for you?”

(I had been informally betrothed to the son of my father’s oldest friend since birth.)

In the end, of course, Father’s vigorous strength overrode her pallid weakness and at the age of four I was given tutors of my own and taught all that any boy would learn save military strategy and oratory.

In this, my father’s latent conservatism revealed itself, for he said, “While it is highly unlikely that a girl as willful as you, daughter, will hold her tongue in public, I am not obliged to encourage impropriety by training that tongue.”

With an invalid’s persistence, my mother seized upon this exception and coopted the time that would have been spent upon oratory for training me in more domestic arts. The whippings she gave me for stupidly-done assignments were more numerous than from all my tutors combined; and when she announced her intent to accompany my father to the underworld, I am ashamed to confess that my first involuntary thought was, Now I shall never have to touch a spindle again!

At that, I burst into tears, and Mother was moved.

“Do you then love me after all?” she asked, curious.

I implored her not to abandon me, but the fear that had gripped her during the past weeks had sapped her frail energy.

“I am too tired, child,” she said sadly. “My duty is with your father still. He has provided for your safety. Quintus Porcius will take you into his household until you are wed.”

Her own tears flowed then, for long ago she had woven my flame-colored bridal veil and had spoken fondly of the day when she would dress me for my marriage. Yet, even for that she would not stay, but disentangled her hands from mine and followed my father into their death chamber and closed the door upon me...

When the waitress brought him his coffee, Colliard managed a nod and a smile. He added milk but no sugar, stirred, looked out the window at the entrance to the four-story commercial building across the street. He didn’t really want the coffee, he’d had enough coffee today, and this cup wouldn’t make him any more alert than he already was. Its only discernible effect would come hours from now, when he’d want to sleep and it wouldn’t let him.

Of course, that might be difficult anyway.

Maybe he should have ordered decaf. He never did; he never even thought of it until he already had a cup of regular coffee in front of him. He’d never been able to see the point of decaf. Why drink the stuff at all if not for the caffeine? It never tasted as good as you hoped it would. Sometimes, if it was particularly good coffee, the smell was wonderful. But then you took a sip, and all you got was disappointment. And caffeine.

He picked up the spoon, stirred the coffee some more, put the spoon down. And left the cup in its saucer. It wasn’t as though he had to drink it. He’d had to order it so that he could have this table by the window, but now that she’d brought it to him he could sit here until closing time. It wasn’t as though they needed the table for another customer. The diner was mostly empty and would likely remain that way, like every place else in town. Like every other town in the country.

Hard times. Sometimes it was tough not to take it personally, to see the entire break in the economy as having been aimed specifically at him. When he got that way he forced himself to take a good look around. And it was pretty easy to see that it wasn’t just him. Everywhere he looked, businesses were failing and men and women were out of work. Corporations, absolute household names that had been around as long as he could remember, were going out of business. Banks were imploding. Retailers, from the big-box chains to the hardware store on the corner, were turning off the lights and locking the doors. As an economy move, someone had quipped, the light at the end of the tunnel had been turned off.

A matter of months ago Colliard had been sitting on top of the world, and the perch was all the sweeter for the time and effort it had taken him to get there. He’d sweated it out to get the union card — an M.B.A. from a top university. He’d lived off his savings and hit the books hard, and the degree got him his first corporate job. He worked hard, and when the headhunters came calling, he was ready to move up. He earned the promotions, he got the cash and prizes, and he bought the right house and married the right woman. He earned big bucks and lived within his income, and when the chance came along to start his own company, he jumped at it.

And made it work. And figured he had it made.

Far in the distance, it winked under the sinking sun like a rich man’s gold tooth. Shifting carefully so as not to capsize the rowboat, Javier shaded his eyes and watched it glint again, then hold. A boat maybe, or a trick of his tired eyes. The light vanished. He remembered what his grandmother had told him as a boy. A light in the water was a ghost. Flashing once, it was an omen from the dead. But to linger as it had; that was something different. Not an omen, but an invitation.

There had been a storm out at sea. The waves continued to grow, pushing and pulling the boat like a tug toy. Javier tried adjusting his heavy body as a counterweight. A sudden gust of wind, the salt spray slapping his face, made him put down his fishing rod, grab the oars, and row for shore.

The invitation did not take long to arrive. Knocking on Javier’s door early the next morning, Rivera reported what had happened, then waited as Javier fumbled into his uniform. They stopped for coffee and those soft rolls dripping with butter at the Pasteleria de Mertha. No need to rush for the dead. Pawing at yet another grease stain on his shirt, Javier struggled to his feet, sighing almost as loudly as the chair. Ten minutes later they arrived at the pier. Slender palms swayed in the wind, and a new collection of driftwood had piled onto shore from last night’s waves.

The yacht was long and sleek. It had run aground, the front end digging like a plow deep into the sand, while the rear waddled under the lapping water. It tilted on its port side as if to offer its name, Island Girl, painted on the starboard. The kind of craft that Javier, as a boy working at the pier, had cleaned and repaired. The yacht was forty feet long, with a cabin of deeply polished oak and brass railings. The main sail had been lowered and reefed around the long boom. The jib, a smaller sail in front, had also been secured.

Rivera said, “The old Haitian Petain found the boat around seven this morning. Tied it up tight, took care of the sails, then went on board. That’s when he saw her. He ran to the station and just stood there until I opened up at eight. I thought maybe he was drunk or a little crazy, but then he took me back here and... well, you’ll see.”

Rivera had left a rickety ladder jammed against the hull. After scampering up, he helped Javier climb on board. Because of the way the yacht listed, everything was on an angle, like an amusement park’s funhouse.

Javier eyed the two sets of deep-sea tackle laid carelessly below the tiller, their lines tangled. They would probably cost a police sergeant like him a year’s salary.

The two men walked carefully on the slippery deck into the navigation station, where a sleeping bag had been unrolled onto the floor. A few T-shirts and jeans were bundled in a corner. Javier went through the pile and found an American passport belonging to a Jeffrey Cassidy, age thirty-two, with a Miami address.

They returned to the deck. A long oak cutting board lay on the port side, where a fish had recently been gutted. Scales and bones framed the board, on which rested a two-pronged fork, its handle also of oak.

A series of black scuff marks trailed along the railing for about ten feet. They started, stopped, and meandered in a crazy fashion. Javier followed the trail, when suddenly the wind kicked up and the boom swung toward him.

“Watch it, Hugo!” Rivera shouted, grabbing the boom and tying it back in place. Then he said, “The body’s below deck.”

Rivera scampered down a narrow stairway.

The boat shifted under a wave, and Javier stumbled on the stairs, tearing one of the railings from the wall and almost stepping on the body. It lay facedown on the thick blue carpet of the main salon.

“A real beauty,” Rivera said.

She had long black curly hair and cocoa-colored skin. Probably a Dominican like them. Although she was small — maybe 120 pounds — the green pullover and gray sweat pants couldn’t hide her buxom figure. She wore sneakers — one shoe red and the other black.

Javier bent on one knee and gently brushed away the woman’s hair to see her face. Rivera was right. She was beautiful, probably in her early twenties. Her eyes, almond-shaped, gave her an Asian cast.

“What do you think killed her?” Rivera asked. “Can’t see any marks or blood.”

Javier studied the girl’s body, lifted then gently lowered her head and shoulders. No marks were visible. He considered undressing her, but it seemed indecent. The coroner could do that at the mortuary.

He felt the back of her skull, which was slightly damp. “There’s a bump here on the right side.”

“You think maybe she tripped and fell — that’s how she died?”

“The bruising would be on the other side, on her forehead where she hit the floor.”

Near the woman’s head was a bunched towel, still damp. A few feet away rested a broken Champagne bottle; some liquid had pooled inside its cracked base. Javier scanned the salon. Just past the woman’s body, two plush leather chairs stood on either side of a table and, past them, a bar ran the length of the room. Scattered about were several empty rum and beer bottles, a half-dozen glasses, trays filled with cigarette butts, plates caked with fish bones and greasy potatoes.

Rivera said, “You should see the rest of the boat. What rich people do to beautiful things.”

Along a narrow hallway lay an overturned ice tray, surrounded by a puddle of water. They entered the galley, filthy with dishes piled in the sink. A large plastic bag overflowed with garbage and smelled of fish. The silverware drawer had also fallen onto the floor. The cupboard contained tins of sardines, smoked oysters, soups, and a box of crackers.

The stateroom smelled like a whorehouse — all perfume and liquor and sweat. The king-size bed hadn’t been made. More half-empty glasses on the floor; some had spilled, leaving dark stains on the carpet.

Rivera examined the one long closet. “Two sets of clothing — his and hers. Wait a minute.” He rummaged around the men’s shoes. “Two different sizes.” He looked up. “Jackets, too. Looks like this group of men’s clothing” — he pointed to several sport shirts and slacks — “is maybe two or three sizes bigger than the ones beside it.”

Javier said, “The sleeping bag up in the navigation room. There were two men along with the dead woman — one above and one below deck with her. Go through the rest of the boat and see what you can find.”

The bed creaked as Javier leaned against the headboard. A hundred-dollar bill, U.S. currency, lay half off the pillow; a fifty balanced between headboard and pillow. He stared at the money, then slipped the fifty into his pocket. Brushing his right hand against the crumpled blanket, he felt a sting. His hand had been nicked by a thin shard of glass. He carefully placed the glass in a wastebasket.

Near the wastebasket were a large satchel and a plastic bag with the logo of a shoe store in the capital. He looked through the satchel, which was filled mostly with women’s clothing. A few men’s shirts and a pair of slacks, all of which belonged to the smaller man, had been randomly stuffed among the woman’s garments.

He shook the plastic bag’s contents onto the bed. American currency rained down amid bits of broken glass. Fifties and hundreds, totaling nearly three thousand dollars. There was a Dominican driver’s license, issued in Santo Domingo, to an Esmeralda Hernandez. The photo matched the dead woman.

There were also packets of photographs dated various times during the last month and taken in places that included Santo Domingo, as well as some of the northern beaches. Most of the photos featured variations of three people — Esmeralda and two men in their mid thirties, one bigger than the other. The taller man matched the passport photo of Jeff Cassidy, but it was the other man who looked familiar. A single framed photo, its glass completely broken, showed a close-up of the dead woman hugging him. Rivera returned. “Nothing else, Hugo. My God, look at all that money!”

Javier took two one-hundred-dollar bills. He gave one to his companion and put the second into his pocket.

“But Hugo — all that money.”

“What have I always told you?”

“But—”

“Tell me.”

Rivera slowly nodded. “It’s easy to miss a loaf of bread, but nobody misses a crumb.”

Javier began to put everything back into the satchel and plastic bag.

Rivera asked, “Did you find anything else?”

“Remember a few years back in the playoffs, when Sammy Sosa struck out in the ninth inning of the last game?”

“Yeah, that pitcher had a wicked curveball, like a gate swinging shut. What was his name?”

Javier handed him the framed photograph. “Benny Cassidy.”

He watched Rivera staring wide-eyed at the photo and knew what he was thinking. This was going to be bad.

“Is that him?” Marcy asked. “Wait! Don’t turn. Is it him?”

“How can I tell if I can’t look?” Flo said. The two women were seated at a table in the Jury’s Inn, a busy singles bar near the Murphy Hall of Justice, downtown Detroit. A clean, well-lighted room, garnished with ferns, bustling with yuppie couples and singles cheerfully cruising for Mr. Right or Miss Right for Tonight. Clattering with cocktail chatter and pickup lines.

The tables are small, but quite tall, each seat offering a hawk’s-eye view of the crowded room. Marcy had chosen a corner table tucked behind a bank of ferns. Near the rear exit.

“Sorry, Flo, I’m jumpy as a cat. First dates are the pits. Check him out, please, but forgodsake don’t gawk.”

“I never gawk.” Flo grinned. “I’ve been known to ogle, though.” The two women were a sharp contrast. Flo dressed in Western butch, a denim jacket over a Toby Keith T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots with hammered silver toes. Her fiery red hair was cropped short as a man’s.

Marcy’s outfit was almost a uniform. Navy blue Donna Karan suit with a high neckline and a bit of lace at the throat. Flat heels. Librarian chic.

Both women were attractive, though. Big-shouldered and brash, Flo had an irresistible smile. Marcy’s oval face could have been cut for a cameo, wide blue eyes and tightly curled blond hair.

Swiveling her generous hips, Flo surveyed the room, apparently trolling. Barely taking note of the lone stag waiting at the greeter’s station.

“He’s definitely the guy in the picture,” Flo agreed, turning back to Marcy. “What’s his name? Bradley something?”

“Brad Sullivan. And?”

“He doesn’t have two heads, and the one he has isn’t half bad. He’s no Brad Pitt, but he’s not a dork either. Look for yourself. The hostess is showing him to a table.”

Marcy risked a quick glance over her shoulder, then held it a moment. “Fair to Midland,” she conceded. Medium build, tweed jacket over a golf shirt, and Dockers. Thick, dark hair shorn even shorter than Flo’s, almost military. Not handsome, exactly, but... interesting.

“Looks okay to me,” Flo said. “Still has his hair, looks like he works out. But I’m the wrong honey to ask about breeder guys. Does he pass inspection? Or do we fade out the back door?”

“No,” Marcy said, taking a deep breath, straightening her skirt. “I’ll give him a try. Do I look okay?”

“Like a freaking angel,” Flo said fondly. “I’ll wait a bit. If you need rescuing, just tug on your left earlobe.”

The cabin had a turf roof and walls of grey stone and dark timber. It was positioned on a wooded plateau next to the inlet to a small oval lake that was caressed by the gentle June breeze. Two rowboats were drawn up on the stony beach. The birch wood was close by, leaves not yet sprung. Higher up was the mountain plateau, the glacier, and the snow-capped peaks.

Robert Odden sat against the cabin’s southern wall. He was a dark-haired, stocky man, aged forty-five. He meticulously fastened a wet fly to a thin nylon line. He put down the rod, lit his pipe, and leaned back in his chair.

His wife Linda appeared carrying a tray, which she placed on a solid wooden table in the shadow of the birch tree in the yard. She was a few years younger than her husband, with a well-maintained figure and an attractive face colored by the sun and discreet makeup.

“Do you need a hand?” he inquired.

“No, I’ll let you know when I do. Do you know what? In the kitchen I put four cups and plates on the tray without even thinking. Then I realized. But I’ll never get used to Father being gone. I often feel that he’ll reappear. That everything will be the same as this time last year.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “It’s a natural reaction. Birger will be a part of us for as long as we live. There’s Marta, by the way.”

A tall woman in green-speckled sportswear approached them from a copse. She was sixty-seven, but bore her age well. A melancholy shadow lay over the thin brown face.

“Did you go far?” her daughter asked.

“To the beacon on Stolshogda.”

“Oh. The same walk you and Father took so many times. I should have known you went there today.”

“I know. I had to. And do you know what? It was as though Birger followed me the whole way. I didn’t see him, and I didn’t hear him. Yet he was there, like a detached part of myself. Isn’t that strange?”

The daughter hugged her mother, eyes blank.

“Well, you must be tired now. Would you like to sit down? The table is set, as you can see.”

“I need to freshen up first. It’s only eleven-thirty. At twelve o’clock exactly we drink a toast to Birger, as we agreed. The guests arrive at one o’clock. If anyone turns up, that is. We can’t expect it, now that Birger is no more. But we must be prepared.”

“I’m pretty sure Arne Midtli will turn up,” said Robert Odden. “He mentioned he had made something Birger was supposed to have had.”

“Well, I never. If he turns up, his brother Erik is sure to be along, too. The more the merrier. I know they’re fond of whisky. We do have soda, Robert?”

“Don’t worry, we have everything we need.”

“Fine, I’ll be back in a moment.”

Marta Lindbo disappeared into the spacious cabin. When she reappeared fifteen minutes later, she was wearing a green skirt and yellow blouse. With her brown skin and her blond, newly brushed hair, she looked almost youthful.

“How pretty you are, Mother!” exclaimed Linda Odden.

She had also freshened up. She looked good in a green pantsuit and yellow silk blouse. Her brows above her shiny eyes were replenished with dark make-up. Robert Odden had donned a pair of black trousers, a white shirt, and a blue striped tie. He smiled self-consciously and said:

“Birger would make a fuss could he see me now. I can practically hear his voice: ‘A tie on at the cabin! That’s like wearing a swimsuit to church, dear boy!’”

The two women smiled. Marta Lindbo said:

“Yes, he would have said something like that. He always had a clever tongue. But I appreciate that you have dressed for the occasion, Robert.”

She suddenly became quiet. She sat down at the table with a hand covering her face. Robert and Linda Odden glanced at each other. She made a small gesture and he bent over to bring out a bottle of Champagne from a cooler. A few seconds later, an explosion sounded. The cork was launched high into the air. Then he poured the glasses that Linda Odden had set out. She raised her voice. It was shaking slightly.

“It’s noon. Today, on the twentieth of June, Father would have turned eighty. This was not to be, but he is with us all the same. He always will be. A toast to Father!”

The three of them lifted their glasses. Marta Lindbo’s eyes were blank. When she had drunk, she said:

“Excuse me, I can’t help being moved. But it’s so... so pointless... that Birger is no longer amongst us. Here, at this cabin that he built with his own hands. At this place, which he loved so dearly. To me, it’s just...”

She sniffled and couldn’t go on. Robert Odden started to speak, calmly and quietly.

“We are all moved today, all three of us, Marta. Both Linda and I feel exactly as you do. I believe that there always is meaning in things that appear to be meaningless. Birger disappeared on that hunting trip on the twenty-ninth of October last year. He was never found despite an exhaustive search. I don’t want to reopen old wounds, but I would just like to repeat what Birger said to me some years ago. ‘When I feel that my time has come,’ he said, ‘I would just like to disappear in the mountains up here. Return to nature, so to speak.’ And Birger’s wish was heeded. That’s why I have a strong sense that he is still amongst us. In the fresh air, in the pure water, in the wildflowers, the heather, and the birdsong in the hillsides.”

A prolonged silence followed these words. Then Marta Lindbo leaned forward and patted her son-in-law on the hand, and said quietly:

“Thank you, Robert, that was beautiful. It was just what I needed to hear today.”

“Let’s drink another toast,” said Linda Odden. “Let us be merry. For what would Father have wanted more on this day than for us to enjoy ourselves. Death is part of life. I feel that even more now. Birger is amongst us. I can see him clearly. The warm smile, the cheery glint in his eye, the quick retort. Another toast to Father.”

They lifted their glasses once more. When they had drunk, Linda Odden disappeared into the kitchen. She soon returned with a pot of coffee and a tray of smoked trout sandwiches, scrambled eggs, and finely cut vegetables.

“My, my, how delightful!” exclaimed Marta Lindbo, “you really made an effort, dear.”

“It’s the trout Birger caught in the Heivatnet Lake last summer,” said Robert Odden. “He wanted to save it for his eightieth birthday. It has been in the freezer all this time. And as you will notice, it is of excellent quality.”

Linda Odden poured coffee. They ate piously at the solid wooden table that Birger Lindbo had once built with his own hands. The sun was warm. Bright yellow flowers and grass swayed in the gentle breeze. A brownish-red butterfly fluttered across the fields.

“Memories come flowing back on days like these,” said Marta Lindbo. “I remember the night I met Birger as if it were yesterday. I was only twenty, and he was thirty-three. But I can assure you that it was love at first sight. He was so grown-up, so handsome, so sure of himself. I fell for his blue, honest eyes. And for the good strong hands. Yes, I was young back then, but love matured me. Youthful nonsense became a thing of the past.”

The conversation flowed along, almost exclusively about Birger Lindbo. If he had been present, he would have sat at his customary place at the north end of the table. Now Robert Odden was sitting there, because his mother-in-law had wanted it so.

“It’s a man’s place,” she said, “And I don’t want it be empty.”

Robert Odden had hesitated to begin with. Then he moved, with the slightly self-conscious smile that made him so boyish. Linda Odden fetched a plate of waffles and a bowl of cloudberry jam.

“The berries we picked at Bjornemyra bog last autumn,” she explained. “Father was with us. He probably picked more than his share.”

They ate in silence once more. Linda Odden poured Birger Lindbo’s favorite liqueur. Everything was well planned and stylishly executed. The mild intoxication and the warm summer breeze had put them all in an elevated, slightly emotional state.

Everything seems so right, Linda Odden thought to herself. She no longer had any sense of self-reproach. After almost eight months of varying degrees of regret and frustration she had found spiritual equilibrium. As soon as she felt a hint of a bad conscience, it was countered by a feeling of objection. Herself as a little girl, on her father’s lap. No, it was hardly incestuous. But she seemed to recall that he had felt her up a few times. And in recent years he had been difficult. A real stubborn miser. Why had he insisted on living in the huge villa when Marta preferred the Canaries during the winter and beyond? Particularly when he knew that Robert and she could use the space.

She had prepared the packed lunch that day her father and mother had set out on what was to be his final hunting trip. She knew what they would want. Egg sandwiches for her mother, whole wheat bread and salami for her father. He always preferred strong, hot coffee for his thermos, while she preferred sweet tea. A few sleeping pills in his coffee, well, that could only be construed as mischief. How he had completely vanished, she just couldn’t fathom. It had to be providence. It was only later that she contemplated the intimidating term autopsy. She hadn’t thought far ahead, but things had turned out well.

Her mother had come home in the afternoon. She had said that she didn’t have the energy to follow Birger any further, as he had wanted to hunt all the way up to the top of Vestfjellet mountain. She had brought the pack back with her. No coffee remained in the thermos. Linda Odden quickly cleaned it thoroughly. That was that. And now everything felt easy and right. Yes, it had to be providence.

“Another toast to Father,” she proposed and raised her glass once more.

“A toast to Birger.”

Marta Lindbo was also in a pleasantly animated state. This celebration was indeed a worthy celebration. She really felt that Birger was invisibly present. Birger as he was before he became so single-minded, stubborn, and difficult. Over the years there was more and more hunting and fishing, less and less time for her. More and more often she had traveled alone to their holiday retreat in the Canaries. And the inevitable had happened. She had known Jan Tydell for three years. He was a Swedish widower who owned a picturesque restaurant in a small coastal village on the south coast of Gran Canaria. He was five years her junior, and so fresh, so spontaneous, so different. His tender attention had awakened her dormant urges. Eventually they had become dependent on each other. At home in the grand villa in Norway, Birger sat with his fly-tying and his books on hunting and fishing. Unless he was at the cabin with his unavoidable hunting buddies. Or at the factory he owned. The one producing Lindbo’s Outdoor Gear. Initially it was just tents, sleeping bags and fishing equipment. Later on, there were backpacks, clothes, skis, canoes, and whatnot. The enterprise he had established had become a gold mine he was reluctant to relinquish. Over the years he had become an old, impotent man who couldn’t acknowledge that time had passed, and who watched over the family with the suspicious eye of a miser. No, why should she feel regret?

“Birger was so virtuous that I often felt unworthy of him,” she said with a shy smile.

“Mother! How could you be unworthy of him? You, of such high morals. You, who shared his interests and stood loyally by his side.”

Her daughter’s indignation touched Marta Lindbo. And so did her son-in-law’s unfailing interest in whatever she had to say. It was indeed a day of celebration. Linda had become more lively and youthful after she and Robert had moved into the villa. Now she could finally host the grand dinner parties she had always dreamed of. She was an excellent hostess, just as Marta Lindbo once had been. But Marta had felt no desire to live in the villa by herself, so she had exchanged dwellings with her daughter and son-in-law. In any case, she spent so many months of the year abroad. It was a beneficial arrangement for all parties. Robert had also shed that slightly insecure and humbled attitude once he became director at the factory. Everything was indeed harmonious.

She really wasn’t to blame for the events that had unfolded. She had told a white lie, and that was it. She had accompanied Birger on the hunting trip. Following several hours of fruitless hiking they had stopped for a break. She unpacked the delicious lunch that Linda had prepared. Then they had eaten. And drunk coffee and tea. In a short while Birger had become very tired. He must be ill, she had thought. Good God, he’s falling asleep. Here, way up in the mountains in the cold and rain. What am I to do?

Then she had the idea. Not a sudden impulse, but rather a logical and natural conclusion. There had to be a purpose to the situation. She had been given a chance that perhaps would never return. When she confirmed that he was fast asleep, she packed the lunch and removed all traces of herself. Before she left her husband, she bent over him, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Goodbye Birger, and thank you.” Then she left, sure that he wouldn’t suffer. He would sleep until death caught up with him. Perhaps he had suffered heart failure, in such a quiet and peaceful manner. Perhaps it was fate that had determined that he should die up in the mountains. And that she should be financially independent. She had taken the shortest route back to the cabin. She said that she had had to part ways with her husband, that she just didn’t have the energy to follow him up the mountain as she wasn’t as fit as she used to be.

That was it. And now she sat there in the warmth of June, youthful, well-kept, eyes blank with intoxicating drink and a torrent of memories from her long marriage.

“Excuse my sentimentality,” she said with a melancholy smile.

“You have every right to be sentimental,” exclaimed Linda.

“We are all sentimental at moments such as these,” said Robert Odden. “Mournful, too. We have every reason to be. Another toast to Birger.”

When he put down his glass, he thought that if he hadn’t acted as he did, he would still be at the foot of the table. His father-in-law would have him under surveillance with his hawkish eye, and he would append his inevitable “boy” to every second sentence directed at him. “You must understand, boy.” “You must get it into your head that it’s as I say it is, boy.” He used the same figure of speech when they spoke confidentially at the factory. The old man is unreasonably hard and difficult, Robert Odden had thought. But he had been patient and polite enough to avoid giving him a piece of his mind, as he was brought up in a home where manners were instilled in him in daily doses, much like cod liver oil.

No, he wasn’t a criminal, by any means. What had happened was chance and a chance he couldn’t let pass. His mother-in-law had returned from the walk and said that she couldn’t keep up with her husband. The hours went by, and when the old man didn’t return, he had gone out to search for him. He brought a tent and a sleeping bag, as it was late autumn and darkness would come early. He couldn’t find his father-in-law that evening. The morning after, he was up early and continued the search. He found him below the peak of Vestfjellet, lying next to an extinguished fire with his shotgun and backpack. He’s dead, was Robert’s first thought. But he soon discovered that there was some life in him, despite hypothermia and a slow pulse. It was testimony to his unique toughness. He would live to be a hundred if he had the chance.

Robert Odden had summed up his options. The old man would undoubtedly die if he was left in this condition. However, he was on a well-used path up the mountain. If he returned with news that he hadn’t found him, it would seem strange that he hadn’t looked there. In other words, his father-in-law had to be moved to a more inaccessible location. But that would also seem suspicious if he were to be found later on.

It was then the idea came to him, but at the same moment his father-in-law moved and opened his eyes. For a few fateful seconds the two men had stared each other in the eye. Then panic gripped Robert Odden, he felt that the chance of a lifetime was about to be torn from his grasp. He grabbed a rock, bent over his father-in-law, and hit him on the head so that he fell calm once more. The blow may indeed have been fatal, but this was no time for regrets. Birger Lindbo had to disappear for good.

His panic passed, and he once more felt in command of himself and capable of logical thought. He had made a huge mistake, but it was not to seal his fate. He took his father-in-law’s backpack and gun on his back. Then he lifted the frail old body over his shoulders. Robert Odden had always been as strong as an ox, and he maintained his shape through regular visits to the gym.

Nevertheless, it took him three-quarters of an hour to carry his father-in-law up to the glacier. He made numerous stops under way. He put on his special spiked shoes for glacier climbing and continued on his way with his burden, now on hard, slippery ice. Half an hour later he had arrived at a narrow, bottomless crevasse. First he got rid of the gun and the backpack, but as he was about to topple his father-in-law over the edge, he noticed signs of life — a gurgling rattle, a leg twitching. Robert Odden pulled the belt from his jacket, tied it around the wrinkled neck, and pulled it tight. Imagine regaining consciousness at the bottom of a crevasse. He shuddered. No, his father-in-law didn’t deserve it.

He shoved the limp body into the depths, and all was done. In more ways than one he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders as he returned to where he had found his father-in-law. He carefully checked that no trace remained before picking up his own backpack and heading towards the cabin. He arrived in late afternoon, tired and despondent.

“I couldn’t find him. We need help to search for him. Give me some food and a short rest, then I’ll head down to the village to organize a search party.”

He had done everything humanly possible, and no one would doubt his genuine concern. He was a permanent fixture of the search party, but not a trace of the missing man was to be found. Torrential rain made things worse. The glacier was not searched, as it was a well-known fact that Birger Lindbo detested the cold and ice.

The days passed, and the old man remained missing, and the three remaining occupants of the cabin became closer while discussing the dreadful events.

A new year came around, a new summer. Robert Odden adjusted his position, full of well-being and pleasant thoughts.

“I have a great debt of gratitude to Birger,” he said. “He taught me everything I know about good management. He was an indispensable mentor. I hope you have no objections to my plan of having a bust made. By a renowned sculptor, obviously. The bust will have a place of honor at the factory.”

“Of course we don’t mind,” said Marta Lindbo.

“Of course not,” her daughter concurred.

They raised their glasses for another toast. Then Robert Odden set his sights on the edge of the wood down the hill.

“There come Else and Torstein Moen,” he declared.

The two women stared in the same direction, and Marta Lindbo exclaimed:

“Oh, how pleasant. You do have more trout sandwiches and waffles, don’t you, Linda?”

“Of course, I did take guests into account.”

“And I have some more Champagne hidden away,” said Robert Odden.

The retired district doctor was a short, cheerful man with grey hair and steel-rimmed glasses. His wife was blond, chubby, and almost as talkative as he was. She handed Marta Lindbo a beautiful flower arrangement, a bundle of dried wildflowers in a lacquered pine bowl. Her husband had brought a bottle of fine cognac.

“Oh, it’s just too much,” said Marta Lindbo emotionally.

She put the gifts on the table and asked the guests to be seated. Soon there was another toast, and chatter continued.

“We weren’t expecting guests today,” said Marta Lindbo with little conviction. The remark sparked mild indignation with Torstein Moen:

“You must have realized that we would come to celebrate Birger’s birthday. He was very important to both Else and myself.”

“There are two more guests,” said Linda Odden.

They all turned their heads in the same direction. Two aging men came walking up the slope.

“Arne and Erik Midtli,” said Robert Odden. “Two of Birger’s best hunting buddies.”

“Indeed, almost as good as me,” said the retired doctor humorously. “They are two spirited old bachelors. But I am afraid they will remain unmarried. Unless miracles happen, that is.”

The two brothers were slim, dark-skinned, and taciturn. Erik Midtli had brought a small bear carved from birchwood, while his brother presented Marta Lindbo with two fishing flies in a plastic case. She folded her hands.

“My goodness, you are true artists, I have always said so. And you, Arne, I owe you so much. You taught Birger everything he knew about tying flies. But no matter how hard he tried, he never became as good as you. What are these flies called?”

“One is called ‘Birger,’ and the other is called ‘Lindbo,’” said the old man. “I think they’ll do well in the lake here.”

“Such a shame that Father never had the opportunity to see these wonderful gifts,” said Linda Odden, tears in her eyes. “You are so wonderful, all of you!”

The brothers sat down at the table and the conversation picked up. It was all about the deceased. The four guests testingly glanced at the hosts occasionally, fearful of recalling sore memories.

The atmosphere lightened. Even the taciturn brothers became lively. However, the gathering never lost its sense of dignity. Not even when jokes and good hunting stories were told did the party surrender to unrestrained liveliness.

Later on, when Robert Odden and the retired district doctor stood admiring the fabulous view, Robert Odden said:

“It’s strange, but Marta, Linda, and I all feel that Birger is present.”

“Indeed, I feel the same way myself,” said Torstein Moen. “I’m not a superstitious man, but so-called animism has fascinated me for a long time. That everything has a soul is easy to believe when confronted by such beautiful natural surroundings.”

Robert Odden turned around and called for the attention of the others.

“Dear all of you. If Birger were amongst us today, you know he would have suggested a fishing trip. Well, the two boats are ready. Torstein, you use Birger’s favourite rod. And you two, Arne and Erik, can be the first to try the new flies with my rods.”

The suggestion was received enthusiastically. Everyone moved to where the two boats lay. The sun had become even warmer, the breeze had relented, and the mountains were mirrored in the still lake.

“It’s been a surprisingly mild winter,” said Torstein Moen. “I can’t recall anything like it for as far as I can remember.”

He looked towards the river that plummeted downwards and emptied into the lake, only a few feet from the boats. The water level was high, and in the eddies along the shore twigs and strangely shaped branches swirled around and around. Linda Odden was the first to arrive at the boat closest to the river mouth. Suddenly she froze in a strangely stiff posture. Then she screamed, loud and shrill.

The others ran towards her and surrounded her. Then there were more screams and shouts before a paralyzing silence arose.

In an eddy a small distance from the boat lay Birger Lindbo, floating on his back. The time beneath the ice and in the cold river had given his face a greenish-white tinge. He was otherwise strangely unaffected by his lengthy absence. His clothes were whole, the belt around his neck still tightly fastened. The apples of his eyes glowed a pale white in the afternoon sun. His right arm pointed upwards with fingers apart, as if in greeting. His mouth gaped at them.

As if to cry a silent hello.

Copyright © 2010 Jon L. Breen

I always wondered what it would be like to find a body. Whenever I was out walking the dog, up on the wild cliff-top path or in the endless expanse of dunes, sooner or later the thought would pop into my head: Suppose Alice suddenly rushes ahead barking, and when I go to see what the fuss is about I find human remains?

Not that I wanted to find one — I was just aware it could happen. You hear about it on the news, dog walkers and ramblers stumbling over bodies in isolated places, and it doesn’t get much more isolated than it is around here. Oh, not in summer, in summer it’s heaving, but in winter, when the tourists and second-homers are gone, it’s a virtual wasteland. I could think of a dozen places to dump a body where it might not be found for months — if at all.

My husband thought I was crazy, of course. “Oh, give it a rest!” he complained, one of the few times he accompanied me. “When was the last time a body was found around here?”

“Nineteen sixty-three,” I told him. “A woman’s battered body was found in the dunes.”

“Trust you to know that,” he muttered. “Anyway, that’s nearly fifty years ago. You’ve about as much chance of finding a body as you have of winning the lottery.”

He was probably right, though that didn’t stop me thinking about it.

“Trouble with you, you watch too much television,” he would say, and he was possibly right about that, too. Dalziel and Pascoe, Wire in the Blood, Inspector Lynley — you name it, I watch it. And Crimewatch, of course — mustn’t forget the real stuff. “Bet you wished you lived there!” he once sneered when I was glued to Midsomer Murders. “You’d be tripping over corpses every time you went out.”

With any luck, yours, I thought, though I didn’t dare say it. He wouldn’t have seen the funny side, and his temper was fearful when aroused.

But I wasn’t joking, not entirely. Our marriage had long been one of convenience only. I did all the washing, cleaning, and cooking, while Derek... well, let’s just say he found his pleasure elsewhere. His current dalliance was Donna, a leggy blond secretary twenty years his junior, the latest in a string of leggy blond women stretching back ten years. Possibly longer, but it was ten years since I first became suspicious.

Needless to say, Derek denied everything. He accused me of being neurotic, over-possessive, unnaturally suspicious, and a host of other things I prefer not to repeat. And sometimes it became more personal. “Would you blame me if I did?” he would yell. “Just look at yourself! What happened to the attractive woman I married?”

“She got older!” I would say. “Just as you have.”

“Yeah, well at least I’ve made an effort and looked after myself.”

Which was true — he had. He was still a dauntingly handsome man. Though it had come at a price. Oh, he liked nice things, did Derek — designer clothes, expensive cars, gold-card membership at the gym... It was no wonder there was never anything left in the bank.

But it was unfair to imply I’d let myself go. My hair was nicely trimmed (the few white ones hidden by a blond rinse), and if I wasn’t quite as slim as when we met, I was by no means fat; the dog-walking saw to that. And I would have bought pretty clothes if I had anywhere to wear them.

In the early days, of course, I had no proof. He was far too careful covering his tracks. But as time went on he became more careless, and occasionally, when doing his washing, I’d notice a smear of makeup on a shirt or get a waft of alien perfume. (I could often tell when he changed models by the sudden change of scent.) But by then I’d given up confronting him. Instead I kept notes (sometimes names, often just perfumes), and my diaries were full of cryptic entries, things like, Eternity (Ha!) July-Nov 2003. The motel receipt I found in his jacket pocket I stored carefully away in a box.

Over the years I built up quite a collection. Nothing that would stand up in court, perhaps, though I hoped it would make him think twice about asking for a divorce.

Oh, I thought about leaving, of course I did. But then I would think, Why should I? I wasn’t the one who was playing around. Besides, property in the area had gone through the roof and I knew if I left I would have to move elsewhere. So I decided to stay and make the most of what I had — my house and garden, walks with Alice, the television and books for escape. And, of course, my job, something else I would be forced to give up if I moved away.

Not that it’s anything glamorous. I look after other people’s holiday cottages — keeping an eye on them in winter, turning on heating and hot water before the owners arrive, buying in provisions, and cleaning before and after their stay. But it’s not demanding work (I’ve never minded housework), and I enjoy meeting the people when they come down. Also I can choose my own hours — except when the owners decide on a last-minute visit, as the Ricardos did in February last year.

“They’re forecasting a good weekend,” Mrs. Ricardo said when she phoned on the Friday lunchtime. “So we’re leaving after work and should arrive about ten. Think you can do the honours before then?”

“I’ll go straight round now,” I told her. “Get some heat into the place. Is there anything you’d like me to buy in?”

Milk and fresh bread, she said, the rest they’d bring with them, so I stopped off at the shops on my way there.

A few of my properties are within walking distance, but not the Ricardos’. It’s a couple of miles as the crow flies nearer the mouth of the estuary, but it’s at least six miles by road. Not far from the Sandybanks Motel, as it happens, whose receipt still lay in the box in my wardrobe. You could see part of it beyond the mud flats from the Ricardos’ bedroom window.

The cottage was like an icebox when I let myself in, but a couple of blow-heaters going full blast soon removed the chill. I switched on the wall heaters, turned on the hot water and fridge, and started on the cleaning. There wasn’t much to do, it was much as I had left it after their last visit, and within half an hour everything was spick and span, so I left my usual note saying have a good stay and let myself out again.

The Ricardos had been right about the weather. It was a glorious afternoon, pale winter sunshine shining from a clear blue sky, and the air was crystal clear. Perfect for bird-watching.

It was Mr. Ricardo who was keen on birds. Actually, he was a fanatic. His special interest was shorebirds, which is why they’d bought the cottage. “Does your husband like birds?” he asked the first time I met him. “Not particularly,” I said — at least not the kind he meant. But it made me think about how little I knew myself, and next day I rooted out an ancient pair of binoculars and started taking them on my walks.

When Mr. Ricardo found out what I was doing, he gave me a booklet, with pictures of all the birds I might see — things I’d never heard of, like greenshanks, and knots, and bar-tailed godwits. To this day I still can’t identify most of them, so many look alike, but I do enjoy watching them skimming over the water and poking around in the mud. I even bought a camera with a telephoto lens, and over the months managed some quite respectable shots. My photo of an avocet, Mr. Ricardo said, was worthy of a magazine.

Anyway, that’s how I came to be walking in that part of the dunes after finishing at the cottage, wrapped in my woolly hat and duffel coat, binoculars and camera strung round my neck.

I was on my way back, watching a flock of lapwings through the binoculars, when they suddenly took off and soared overhead. For a moment I lost sight of them and, panning around, I found myself staring straight at the motel. The car park was almost empty but at that moment a red car pulled in, and it flashed through my mind that it looked like Derek’s. Then the driver climbed out and I caught my breath.

He was too far away to see any detail, but I felt sure it was Derek — something about the shape and the way he moved. Even more so when the door of another car opened and a blond woman climbed out. The couple embraced for a moment then, arms entwined, headed towards the entrance.

My heart was racing. Was it my husband? All these years, I thought, and he still has the power to hurt. But within seconds the sadness turned to anger, and before I knew it I was hurrying back to my car.

I made it to the motel within half an hour and parked out of sight in a side lane. The dunes ran almost to the car park so it was easy to find a good vantage point, lying on the sand behind a clump of grass. During the journey I’d managed to calm down, and I felt more like a private eye than a vengeful wife as I adjusted the telephoto. I prayed they would come out before darkness fell.

When the sun disappeared I thought luck was against me, but a moment later the doors opened and the couple emerged. It was Derek, his arm around the woman I now know as Donna, and by the time they climbed into their respective cars I had a dozen compromising shots.

Bulgarians.

She hated the days immediately following a good review. No sooner had some newspaper published the words “brilliant new retrospective” than the museum was full of gawkers, barging in front of serious viewers, mouthing foolish phrases about the paintings — superb paintings, some of them, worthy of stillness and respectful silence. If Ursula had her way, there’d be a regulation against talking in art museums.

And this time it was worse. Oskar Elif had been showing his work to mounting acclaim since he was twenty-four, but had seldom exhibited outside Europe, and certainly not to this extent. Already, on a chilly Monday morning, the fifth-floor galleries swarmed and buzzed. This was the noisiest bunch since the big Rothko show. Ursula cursed, a hushed malediction in her mother tongue — Elif’s as well — as a young person bumped into her without so much as an apology. The inevitable black leather jacket, of course, and a tousled helmet of hair, tinted plum. Not that she herself had been any more courteous in her student days, cutting into lines, shouldering her way through knots of people to capture the best view of a painting. Lithe and light-footed she’d been back then, in her tight white T-shirts and platform boots. Now she was just another woman of a certain age and no longer lithe, a drab old bird in the navy blazer and beige polyester trousers that all the museum’s guards had to wear.

Break time. Ursula nodded to her colleague in the next room and headed upstairs to the catwalk. The great transparent dome had trapped so much winter sunlight that the entire top floor was warm as summer, especially along the narrow catwalk that ran directly beneath the dome and spanned the museum’s core, the imposing, icy-white circular stairwell. An installation was still in progress here; no mouthy art lovers breached the quiet.

From habit, she kept her head bent, imagining herself on a bridge across a mountain pass, shivering with a touch of vertigo, but exhilarated, too. She could see straight through the silvery steel mesh to the spiraling lower stories of the museum, one after another, as if discerning them through fog, while all around her floated sunny air and curving walls of white plaster and glass. A parachutist must feel like this, she thought, or a plant in a greenhouse. Sometimes a painting could deliver her into this state. Weightless. Endless.

That evening, when all these people were gone, she would have another good long look at Tidal Marsh. Estuary as well. And North Sea. Just for a treat.

The office holiday party, in the big conference room down the hall, had been under way for over an hour, its excitement intensified by a blizzard that had shut down transportation throughout Manhattan. Everyone was stuck here, Champagne was flowing, and the party promised to stretch on for as long as the storm outside continued.

But Effie Miller had decided at the last minute not to attend. She occupied her roost outside the chairman’s office, where for nearly twenty years she had served as his loyal executive assistant, and stared at the check for two million dollars. It was blue, drawn from an account at Citibank, typed and signed by the accountant of Ames Vanderbilt, of the Vanderbilts, one of the private Stollit Fund’s regular investors. The check had yet to be deposited, thanks to the storm, a force majeure for which Effie was grateful. It had been that kind of day: a day of extraordinary forces she felt powerless to resist.

First, that morning, the call from her oncologist giving her the bad news. Then a decision.

She slipped the check into the top drawer of her desk. To Ames Vanderbilt and Ted Stollit, two million dollars wasn’t all that much; while to her, two million dollars was two million dollars. It staggered her imagination to think of what she could accomplish and enjoy with that amount in the approximately six months of life she had left. Now that she allowed herself to think this way, it was outrageous, criminal, the way these amounts flowed as if they were nothing.

The blizzard was growing in strength. Through the glass partition between their offices, she could see Ted. He was leaning back in his chair with his ankle-crossed feet propped up on the credenza, gazing through his wall of casement windows into the black-and-white dazzle of nature at its best and worst as snow danced on the backlit stage of Park Avenue at night. His office was dark, except for one lamp, and in the obscurity, his silver hair glistened. In the distance, the top of the Empire State Building was illuminated in horizontal stripes of red and green; yesterday, the lights had been blue and white.

Effie was just locking her desk drawer, and was about to get up, when the outer door to the hushed chairman’s suite she shared with Ted opened. Ebullient chatter spilled in. She hung the key around her neck, where she always wore it on the gold chain Ted had given her years ago, and let it fall into her pink silk blouse.

“Effie, aren’t you coming to the party?”

Jay Patel, the young investment analyst who had taken a shine to her, treating her with the unflagging affection of a dutiful grandson — though she was only almost fifty-three — was well on his way to being drunk. His cheeks were flushed and his usually neat, dark hair looked as if someone had run her fingers through it.

“Of course; when I’m finished here.”

“It’s after six! You can’t always work.”

“Just one or two more things to finish up.”

“Can’t I at least bring you a glass of Champagne?

“That would be lovely. And bring one for Ted, too, if you don’t mind.”

Jay was back in moments with two slender flutes, which he set on her desk, knowing that only she was permitted to intrude uninvited upon their elusive chief executive.

“Isn’t it your birthday over the break?” Jay lingered.

“The day after Christmas.” She smiled to deflect the whimper of sympathy that always came next. It was true: Her birthday was often forgotten in the exhausted aftermath of the holiday, but she was used to it by now. Over the years she had developed a system to avert loneliness: a movie, a meal out at her favorite Chinese restaurant, a book under a cozy blanket on her couch until bedtime. She was always relieved when the next work week began.

“As long as you won’t be alone.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” she said; and he nodded as if this simple advice made absolutely perfect sense.

She smiled again, and waited, until finally he turned around. When he was gone, she rose and locked her door. Her office was a larger, more expensively appointed space than most of the Stollit Group’s executives occupied, with a carpet that cost more than Effie’s annual salary, an ultra-modern, impractical desk, and four Le Corbusier cowhide chairs surrounding a glass coffee table that was too low... all picked out by Ted’s late wife, Linda, and quietly, stubbornly accepted by Effie over the years. Now his fiancée wanted to redecorate — the twenty-nine-year-old former waitress, lately decked out in cashmere and diamonds, had remarked, with a glance at Effie, that the “entryway” to Ted’s “throne room” was in need of a “serious facelift.” A chill had run through Effie when she overheard that comment: It was as if the girl knew how she, Effie, had felt about her boss all these years. That she was in love with him, and that when Linda died and he bypassed her for a younger model, as they said, she had been heartbroken. Every night for two months, after the appearance of the waitress half a year ago, she had cried herself to sleep.

Effie stood there, in the quiet of her space, summoning courage. She picked up the two glasses of Champagne, crossed the room, and tapped the rim of one flute against the glass of Ted’s door. He turned, saw her, saw that she had Champagne for him, and smiled. Reaching beneath his desk, he buzzed her in and the door swung slowly open.

“Happy holidays, Ted.” She handed him one of the glasses over his glowing Makassar ebony desk.

“Happy holidays to you, too, Effie.”

He came around and stood in front of her, stooping slightly, as he was considerably taller than she was. Their glasses made a musical tinkle, a lovely sound, when he touched his to hers. Effie sipped her Champagne, letting it linger on her tongue a moment before swallowing. Then she took another, longer sip as her nerves began to compose themselves.

“I’d like to talk to you, Ted, if you have a minute,” she said.

He opened his arms and released one of his smiles: broad, friendly, exposing crooked rows of whitened teeth. He was sixty-one years old, handsome, one of those men who aged well. “Effie, you, of all people, don’t need an invitation to have a conversation with me.”

She wished he wouldn’t flirt with her, or whatever it was he did that felt like flirting. She took another sip of her Champagne.

“By the way, did Ames’s check ever get here?”

“Yes, but too late. I have it in my desk.”

“Bring it to me, will you?”

“Ted — I have something to say.”

His smile faded; he cocked his head. “Yes?”

She hated to tell him this, because it would change everything. But she had had to miss a day of work last week to see the doctor and he had already asked her twice if she’d gotten the test results. He had lost Linda to breast cancer and, since then, if anyone he knew had a medical scare, he had shown inordinate concern.

“To begin, well, I heard from my doctor.”

“And?” He put his glass on the corner of his desk, leaned forward, and touched her shoulder. The warmth of his hand radiated through the thin barrier of silk. She wished he would take his hand off, because it only made it harder; once she walked out of here, chances were she would never see him again.

“Pancreatic cancer. Late stage. I’m a goner.” She tipped up her glass and let the Champagne flow into her mouth.

“Effie.” Now both his arms were around her and she had a terrible thought: She should have sprung the same news on him a year ago, before it was true, before he met the waitress. Maybe, if they had found their arms around each other like this when she was healthy, a future for them might have tempted his imagination. But she was finished with lying. That was the whole point.

She pulled away, reached for his Champagne, and drank that, too. “Sorry. I’ll get you some more.”

He stopped her from leaving by holding onto her arm. “How long do you have?”

“He said six months, but it was only a guess.”

“I’m sorry, Effie. Really sorry. What can I do?”

She was intoxicated, and now the rest came more easily. She knew she could walk away, take the check with her, and that would be that; but if it was the last thing she ever did, and it might be, she had to take a stand.

“There’s nothing you can do for me anymore, Ted. Obviously I’m not going to keep working.”

“Of course not. But there is something I can do for you. Where do you want to go? Anywhere — name it. How do you want to spend the rest of your life? Tell me, and it’s yours.”

“I want to accomplish something,” she said. “Do something courageous.”

His eyes clouded a bit; it wasn’t the answer he expected. “Let me send you to Polynesia, to Moorea. I’ve heard it’s the most beautiful place on earth. Sandy wants to go there for our honeymoon.”

“No, thank you.” She took a breath. “It’s about Mr. Vanderbilt’s check. We can’t deposit it.”

“Oh?”

“This has to stop.”

She watched the muscles of his jaw grind. This was the moment she had most feared: when she stepped beyond his control.

“This isn’t the time for an attack of conscience. You’re sick, so let me help you. But you don’t have to bring everyone down with you.”

“Everyone?” Just you. He knew as well as she did that they were the only people with access to the Stollit Fund’s account; the Stollit Group was a separate entity that handled the firm’s other, legitimate business.

“Effie, I’m not sure you realize how special you are to me. This has always been our secret. Not even Linda knew.”

“I’ve thought about that. She died never knowing, which in a sense made your marriage, all those years, honest — as in a tree falling in a forest that no one hears makes no sound. She never knew, so it didn’t happen. When you remember her now, it must help you to think of yourself as a good man.” The remittance of that thought, which had taken months to clarify, lightened her.

“What exactly is it you’re trying to say to me, Effie? Are you planning to call the Securities and Exchange Commission? Is that it?”

Her gaze veered away from him and landed on Dora Maar au Chat, Picasso’s painting of a disarranged woman seated on a chair with a black cat on her shoulder, Ted’s most recent acquisition. He had paid over ninety-five million dollars for it at auction — ninety-five million dollars of other people’s money. The thought settled into her consciousness, weightily, as if for the first time; and as her attention skipped across the room — the photograph of his Hamptons beach house, another photo of his house in the south of France, the solid-gold golf-ball paperweight on his desk, the statuettes of bulls scattered throughout his office — she felt the onslaught of despair, as if she had just now walked in on a robbery. She probably didn’t have enough time left in her life to understand how, and why, she had given her trust without reservation to a thief, or where, or if, she would find the courage to disown him now.

“What I’m trying to say is,” she felt a little woozy, and cleared her throat, “what I’m trying to say is...”

“Are you dizzy, Effie?” He stepped toward her. “Come here — some fresh air might help.”

His hand wove around her back and she felt his fingers cling to her waist. It was an almost sexual feeling of closeness; her body relaxed and swayed into him. Would it be so bad to allow herself the fantasy of Effie-and-Ted one more time? And then another dreadful thought: She had the power to blackmail him. Not for money, but as so many men had done to women through history — for sex. She banished the idea immediately. What she had always wanted from Ted was love.

Together they looked out into the blizzard, fourteen flights above the abandoned snow-covered streets. He pulled up the handle of one of the windows and pushed it open. Frigid air and icy snowflakes rushed at them. She stopped breathing, closed her eyes, and turned her face against the protective shield of Ted’s chest.

“Effie,” he whispered. He gently stroked the side of her face. His fingers wandered down along her neck — much as she had imagined. Her body grew warm in the freezing air. Her brain seized on the contrast: life and death; love and sex; honesty and lies. She felt, for once, imperfectly human. Alive.

“Ted.” She struggled to reverse herself. “I won’t... I can’t...”

“Shh.”

He undid the top three buttons of her blouse, leaned down, and kissed her breast. Breath rushed out of her. Her mind blanked.

“Effie,” he whispered again.

She put her hand to his head and pressed his ear to her chest. “Can you hear my heart? It’s beating so fast.”

“I hear it.”

He kissed her, tenderly, carefully. It was exactly as she had imagined it would be: slow, arousing, drenched with emotion. She felt as if her heart was swelling, actually swelling, and opened her legs as his hand traveled up her skirt. When the fabric was gathered at her hips, she allowed him to help her backward onto the credenza. She wanted to reach forward and touch him, too, but didn’t dare. Her mind had never pictured that part of it; it was always what he did for her, and how she let him.

“Effie.”

She felt the chain snap off her neck as she fell backward out of the window. Her blood sobered, her brain awoke. She was flying through the air, flying, her body twisting incrementally in the downward rush toward the expanse of untouched snow.

The last Halloween jack-o’-lantern had hardly been drop-kicked out into the middle of the street when it was boots on the ground for Santa’s crack naval commando unit, the Christmas Seals.

The Pilgrim Fathers never saw it coming. Maybe they were wearing their belt-and-buckle hatbands too tight that year, cutting off blood to the brain. The elves caught the whole lot of them sitting down to table. When the Pilgrim Fathers turned to their Native American dinner guests for help, they saw buckskin backs disappearing into the trees. After a defense more blunder than blunderbuss the Pilgrim Fathers headed for the trees themselves. Long the sickie among the holidays, Thanksgiving wasn’t going to be missed.

When the turkey-in-Mayflower-regalia flag was lowered for the last time, Santa himself stood on the reviewing stand to receive the salute of his victorious elves amid the rumbling flyover of flak-blanketed reindeer pulling humpsters, as the armored sleighs were called, for their part Humvee, part dumpster appearance. Next came a contingent of elves in boater hats carrying long poles and singing a shrill medley from Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Gondoliers. Santa’s Little Helpers brought up the rear. The SLH, pro-North Pole activists who hid their identities behind full white beards, marched, pumping left arms up and down and chanting ho-ho-ho behind a banner that read “Cheers for Mr. C., who made the toy trains run on time!”

Several rows behind Santa, Police Commissioner Denis Ahern stood next to the governor. Ahern’s reputation as a man who got things done had already attracted the attention of the state politicos. He watched the proceedings with the careful eye of an ambitious man, spotting the mayor’s loping gait and two-tone shoes among the SLHers and wondering why the Mart-Mart marchers were there. All Thanksgiving meant to the merchandising giant was that the following day, Black Friday, the Christmas shopping season began with stores moved out of the red ink and into profitability. The Mart-Mart people carried placards that read “Hooray for the Black Whatever!”

After the parade, Ahern went down and introduced himself to Santa. “Didn’t I know your great-aunt Moira?” asked the jolly old elf. “A fine Dolly Dimples of a woman she was back then. We called her Miss Curly-Toes. Did she ever tell you why?” Ahern said she had. They smiled at each other. Then Ahern moved on. The Mart-Mart people were waiting to shake Santa’s hand.