Thirty minutes of barely coherent internal monologue’ing later, Gin had her face, her suit and that pin on, her hair cascading over her shoulders, those slingbacks giving her that extra bit of height. The make-up counter had not fared nearly as well as she had. There were brushes, tubes of mascara, and false eyelashes scattered everywhere. A pick-up-sticks mess of eye pencils. And she’d broken one of her powder compacts, the flesh-colored cake cracked and disintegrated all over the rolling table.

Marls would clean it up.

Gin walked out into the bedroom, picked up the pale, quilted Chanel shoulder bag from her bureau, and opened her bedroom door.

Richard was waiting in the hallway. “You’re six minutes late.”

“And you can tell time. Congratulations.”

As she kicked up her chin, she started by him and was not surprised when he grabbed her arm and yanked her about.

“Do not keep me waiting.”

“You know, I’ve heard they have effective drug therapies for OCD. You could try cyanide, for instance. Or hemlock—I believe we have some on the property? Rosalinda solved that mystery for us quite readily—”

Two doors down, Lizzie came out of Lane’s suite. The woman was dressed for work, in khaki shorts and a black polo with Easterly’s crest on it. With her hair pulled back in another of her rubber bands and no make-up on, she looked enviously young.

“Good morning,” she said as she approached.

Her eyes stayed forward, as if she were walking the streets of New York City, determined not to make trouble or seek it out.

“Are you still on the payroll,” Richard said, “or is he no longer cutting checks to you now that you’re not just bringing flowers to his bedroom?”

Lizzie showed no reaction to that. “Gin, you look beautiful as always.”

And she just kept going.

In her wake, Gin narrowed her eyes at Richard. “Don’t speak to her like that.”

“Why? She’s neither staff nor family, is she. And given your money situation, cutting costs is very appropriate.”

“She is not up for discussion or dissection. You leave her alone. Now, let’s get this over with.”

THIRTY-SIX

As Lizzie descended the main staircase, she was shaking her head. Gin … defending her. Who would have thought that would ever happen?

And no, she wasn’t going down to the mall to get BFFL bracelets for the pair of them. But the not-so-subtle back-up was a lot easier to handle than the condescension and not-at-all-subtle ridicule that had gone on before.

Down in the foyer, she headed around to the back of the house. It was time to do fresh bouquets—with so many late-spring flowers blooming, there was no florist cost, and creating something beautiful was going to make her feel like she was doing work to improve things.

Even if she was the only one who noticed.

Entering the staff hallway, she went down toward Rosalinda’s old office and Mr. Harris’s suite of rooms—

She didn’t make it through to the kitchen.

Outside the butler’s residence, there was a line-up of suitcases. Some photographs and books in a box. A rolling rack that suspended a bunch of suit bags.

Putting her head through the open door, she frowned. “Mr. Harris?”

The butler came out of the bedroom beyond. Even in the midst of his apparent move, he was dressed in one of his suits, his hair gelled into place, his clean-shaven face looking as if he had put a light layer of make-up on it.

“Good day,” he clipped.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“I’ve taken another position.”

“What?”

“I’m moving on. I am being picked up in approximately twenty minutes.”

“Wait, and you’re not giving notice?”

“My check bounced at the bank this morning. Your boyfriend, or whomever he is to you, and his family owe me two thousand nine hundred eighty-seven dollars and twenty-two cents. I believe failure of payment is grounds for me to redact the clause in my contract requiring me to give notice.”

Lizzie shook her head. “You can’t just leave like this.”

“Can’t I? I would suggest you follow my example, but you seem to be inclined to get further involved, not less so, with this family. At least one can guess that you are emotionally vested at a proper level. Otherwise, your self-destruction would be laughable.”

As Lizzie turned away, Mr. Harris said, “Do tell Lane I’m leaving my resignation letter here on the butler’s desk. And try not to depart on a snit, will you.”

Out in the hall, Lizzie smiled at the man as she picked up his box of things. “Oh, I’m not in a snit—or whatever you call it. I’m going to help you get out of this house. And I’m more than happy to tell him where to find your letter. I hope it has your new address on it, or at the very least a phone number. You’re still on the Charlemont Metro Police Department’s interviewee list.”

Fine, I’ll come to you, Lane thought as he pulled the Porsche in between the gates of Samuel T.’s farm.

The lane proceeded down an allée of trees, which had been planted seventy-five years ago by Samuel T.’s great-grandparents. The thick, rough-barked trunks supported broad branches of spectacular green leaves, and a dappling shade was thrown across the pale little pebbles of the driveway. Off in the distance, centered among the fields that rolled with grace, the Lodges’ farmhouse was not rustic in the slightest. Elegant, of perfect proportion, and almost as old as Easterly, the clapboard box had a hip roof and a wraparound porch to end all porches.

After Lane parked next to the old Jaguar, he got out and went to the front door, which was wide open. Knocking on its screen, he called out, “Samuel T.?”

The interior of the house was dark, and as he helped himself and walked in, he liked the smell of the place. Lemon. Old wood. Something sweet like fresh cinnamon buns that have been homemade in the kitchen.

“Samuel T.?”

Some kind of rustling got his attention, and he tracked the sound, walking into the library—

“Oh, shit!”

Pulling a fast pivot from the doorway, he turned away from the image of a very naked woman sitting on Samuel T. on a leather sofa.

“I knocked,” Lane called out.

“It’s okay, old man.”