“It’s our fault you’re here, Callie,” she said against my protestations. “Please let us make you feel at home.”

I thanked her and then followed Angelina through the dining room, back to the foyer, and up the main staircase. As we climbed the stairs, I asked the young maid how many people lived here.

“Well,” she said, counting off on her fingers, “there is Mr. and Mrs. Smythe; their daughter, Judith; their son, Derek; his wife, Sidra; and their son, Carlos. Oh, and my brother Nick and me. That’s eight.” She faltered a bit, then continued sadly, “Until today, of course. Seven, now that Mr. Smythe is gone.”

We reached the second floor, and she led me past a cozy alcove and down to a room at the end of the hall, a lovely bedroom/bathroom combination decorated in muted peaches and greens.

“I will be back in a minute with some clothes for you,” she said after opening the curtains to reveal a nice view of the expansive grounds. “If you need anything else, just let me know.”

Once Angelina was gone, I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out my cell phone. While dialing Tom’s private line, I wondered if he had already heard the news about his friend Wendell or if I would have to be the one to break it to him.

He answered on the first ring.

“Looks like he was probably murdered,” Tom said after he realized it was me. “I just got off the phone with a friend in the Philadelphia police department. Wendell’s death has been tentatively classified as a homicide. I don’t have all the details of how he died, but it looks like someone gave him an overdose of insulin. Wendell had really bad diabetes, you know. Apparently, he died from insulin shock.”

I sat back on the bed, my head reeling. Here I was in the middle of things, and yet somehow Tom had more information about the situation than I did. Typical for the man who always seemed to know everything about everyone.

“Couldn’t it have been an accident?”

“Not likely,” said Tom. “The full coroner’s report should be released in the morning, but the police seem fairly certain that it was a premeditated act. Between the condition of the body and the fact that you chased someone from the scene, the cops are fairly certain: Someone gave him a lethal dose of insulin.”

“I thought diabetics usually gave themselves their own shots.”

“Not Wendell,” said Tom. “He had a needle phobia. Had other people do it for him whenever he could. Apparently, this particular injection was in a spot he couldn’t reach, so it had to be done by someone else. They’re thinking that whoever did this came into his office through the bathroom entrance—the same way you chased them out.”

“Do the police have any suspects?”

“Right now,” he said, “they’re not ruling out anybody. Coworkers, business associates. Family, which is of course ridiculous. But it’s a big list.”