“He’s fine. The bus broke down in Lancaster,” she said. “They won’t be home till tomorrow.”

“Do you need someone to go and get him tonight?” I asked. “If you gave me directions, I wouldn’t mind making the drive—”

“Thank you,” she said, “but no. This’ll give him one more day before he has to face the news of his grandfather. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

She continued walking, letting herself into the cabana. I turned and headed for the house, slipping into the back door and up the stairs before anyone saw me and asked me what I was carrying.

Up in my room, I searched for a hiding place for the bag. I set it on the bed, then slowly walked around the room, thinking, peeking in drawers, feeling under furniture. Nothing really struck me as a good hiding place in either the bedroom or the bathroom until my eyes came to rest on the radiator covers along the wall, under the window.

The covers were made of beautifully stained wood, fronted by an elegant sort of bronze mesh. I had seen these types of covers before, though not as fancy, and I knew they fit down over the radiators like boxes. I grabbed one on each side, and it came up easily. Underneath was an old-fashioned radiator—with plenty of room between it and the wall for my stash. Carefully, I slipped the bag in place, then slid the cover back down over the whole thing. As I looked from each angle, I could see that I had chosen a perfect hiding spot. As long as the temperature outside stayed relatively warm and the radiator never actually kicked on, it would be okay.

I hurriedly put on some makeup and changed into my new dark slacks and top, which fortunately fit just fine. I fixed my hair, pulling a few twigs and leaves from it as I went, then glanced at my watch. I probably only had a few minutes or so before the guests downstairs would begin to leave.

I could hear the low murmur of voices as I reached the bottom of the stairs. From the doorway of the living room I could see Marion dressed elegantly in black, holding court from her perch on the couch, a white handkerchief clutched tightly in her hand. There were about ten people there, their voices hushed and respectful. I joined the small crowd, mingling around, listening as they all spoke of Wendell Smythe in glowing terms, expressing their shock at his sudden death. Marion saw me and proceeded to introduce me as a friend of the family. I was glad; I would’ve hated being known either as a visiting philanthropist or, worse, as the woman who discovered Wendell’s body.

Alan Bennet was there, hovering solicitously around Marion, looking as handsome and perfectly put-together as he had that morning at the office. He seemed to know everyone there, and I realized that he acted almost like a member of the family himself, keeping a comforting hand on Marion’s shoulder, accepting people’s condolences on behalf of the widow. Considering that Derek and Judith were conspicuously absent, I supposed Alan’s presence was helpful. At one point, I overheard him chatting with the family’s minister, Reverend Quinn, giving suggestions for the eulogy.