“From time to time. At the office, it was usually me. At home, it was usually Sidra.”

“Sidra?”

“His daughter-in-law. She’s a nurse.”

“How about Alan Bennet? Why him? I mean, isn’t he a vice president or something?”

“He’s also a close friend of the family. And he and Wendell traveled a lot together on business. Alan always did it when they traveled.”

“How about any other nurses? I understand Wendell had a bunch of medical problems. Was there no regular nurse on staff?”

“Again, Sidra handled his dialysis and everything. Wendell did have some night aides a few months back, but none lately.”

“I see.”

I could hear the slur in her voice growing more pronounced and, feeling guilty, I let her go, telling her I hoped she felt better once she got some rest.

I put away the phone, thinking of Gwen’s list. If I was going to continue with my current theory, then there was a good chance the killer was either a member of the family, a member of the household staff, Alan, or Gwen.

I thought about the Smythe family, knowing that Tom would have a fit if he knew I was looking in their direction first. He was close to them and probably would feel the killer couldn’t possibly be any of them. But I didn’t know the family at all, which was to my advantage at this point. A good detective never assumes anything—and in a case like this one, the family is the most logical place to start, statistically speaking. Marion’s grief at her husband’s passing had seemed genuine, but even that wasn’t always a clear sign of innocence. As I headed to the house I resolved to keep an open mind, hoping I would have a chance to meet and get to know the entire family a little better.

When I was nearly there, I stopped at a large strip mall to pick up some toiletries and makeup, a bathing suit, and a few office supplies. I didn’t feel like spending time trying on any clothes and just grabbed some things that looked like they would fit, hoping for the best.

By the time I reached the house, it was early afternoon, and the place was quiet. Realizing I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, I stashed the bags in my room and set off for the kitchen, hoping to catch a quiet interview with the maid, Angelina, and maybe find something to eat at the same time.

I was in luck. I peered around the corner of the kitchen to see Angelina sitting at the kitchen table, snapping some beans. The chauffeur was standing behind her, now dressed in a white cook’s jacket, kneading some dough on the counter, then pausing to stir a pot on the stove. They were speaking softly as they worked, delicious smells filling the room.

Angelina stood when she saw me, her features offering a guarded smile.

“Mrs. Webber,” she said. “Can I get something for you? A cup of coffee, perhaps?”