I left the bedroom, double-checked the locks on both doors, and backtracked as far as the big tub in the master bath. I took a long soak, followed the trail of disparate thoughts that wandered through my head—Lillian and the Tarot cards she’d given me, which were still a puzzle, the Nick-and-Chester ghost team, Greer’s odd behavior, Heather and the supermarket incident, Geoff turning up at the casino, Joseph, Uncle Senator and the little wife and, last but certainly not least, Tucker.

I was almost afraid to go to sleep.

Nevertheless, I got out of the tub eventually, drained it, dried off and put on my nightgown. It was wrinkled—nothing I sleep in gets ironed, and neither does most of what I don’t sleep in—but comfortably soft, and definitely clean. I brushed my teeth, checked all the locks again and tumbled into bed.

The next thing I knew, sunlight was streaming into the room and I could hear a lawn crew outside, chattering in Spanish, with an accompaniment of lively Latin tunes.

No night visits from Nick.

No bad dreams.

I figured I was on a roll, and the rest of the day would go well.

Yeah, right.

I put on jeans and a T-shirt with no logo—for dressup—and walked almost all the way around the main house before I found the patio. My uncle was already there, reading a newspaper. A china coffee service graced the table, and there was no sign of Aunt Barbara.

Oh, well.

“There you are.” Uncle Clive smiled. He seemed relieved, as though he’d been afraid I might have been misplaced, like a cufflink or a nine-iron.

“I hope I’m not late,” I said, stifling a yawn. I’d slept deeply, and my brain wasn’t up to speed, or I would have asked about Barbara first. After the senator assured me that I was right on time, I corrected the oversight.

“She’s a little fragile this morning,” Clive said fondly. “Dr. Blythe gave her a shot and ordered her to spend the day in bed.”

I wondered, a mite uncharitably, if Barbara would be an asset or a liability on the campaign trail. I’m not as bad as I sound. I just like to consider as many perspectives as possible.

“I hope she feels better soon,” I said, as my uncle drew back a chair at the patio table so I could sit.

The moment my butt connected with the cushion, a maid bustled through a pair of French doors, beaming and carrying a tray. Efficiently, she set places for both of us, with china I could practically see through, and sterling polished to such a high shine that a hiker lost in the desert could have used it to signal for help. Orange juice followed, and buttery croissants.

I figured that was it and waited for the signal to dig in, but Uncle Clive was perusing the newspaper again.