What little gift do you bring a heart patient on a heavily restricted diet? I wasn’t sure Dad was allowed to drink coffee, so even with soy milk, Starbucks was out. Certainly chocolate and baked goods were no-nos. Dad had never been much of a reader, but I stopped for half a dozen bestselling thrillers at the mystery bookstore closest to Gulf Sands and slipped them into a gift bag.

Unlike ungated Tropicana, Gulf Sands has a suspicious set of guards. The guard of the day didn’t recognize me, and gave me the third degree before he allowed me to pass. Since one of the cold case murders Sophie and I were considering took place in a gated community like this one, I wasn’t offended.

Researching a show like Out in the Cold lends itself to paranoia, but I think my interest in crime began earlier when Mom read me all those gruesome bedtime stories. My education added a layer, too. As an undergraduate, I was a criminal justice major, and afterward I pursued a graduate degree in journalism. These days I dig deeply into the hearts and minds of bad guys, and report the salacious details to my listeners. So it’s no surprise I’m inclined to be cautious.

What most people don’t know is that I keep a Smith & Wesson revolver locked securely in my glove compartment. Nor would they guess that the handgun is the result of an armed assault I barely survived when I was twenty-four.

When I finally pulled up to the house, the sun was peeking out behind billowing cumulus clouds. I got out and stretched before I navigated the curving walkway to the front door. As always, I wondered why my parents had built such a large house after both daughters left home. Dad travels a lot, and while Mom sometimes travels with him, most of the time she’s rattling around here alone. When they’re both home, can they find each other? I hoped these next weeks and months while Dad recovered right under Mom’s nose wouldn’t present an impossible challenge to their marriage.

I let myself in and made my way to the master suite. The door was closed again, so I left the gift bag just in front of it and went to look for Mom.

My parents have so much money they could throw wads of bills into their fireplace every night and still die rich. Mom employs a cleaning lady twice a week, and crews arrive quarterly to wash windows, steam rugs and scrub the travertine floors with a toothbrush—if needed. Despite that, she cleans constantly. Clutter offends her, and dirt is her archenemy.

I wasn’t surprised to find her upstairs in the room where the girls had slept. She was down on her hands and knees with a lamb’s wool duster, vigorously swishing it under the bed.

I lounged in the doorway and cleared my throat. “Don’t you still have a cleaning lady?” I didn’t know the latest martyr’s name, since Mom’s standards were so high nobody lasted for more than a few months. She’d immediately run through Gracey Group’s official cleaning staff, and was now working her way through the general population.