I was still in jeans and running shoes; hunched over, my back aching from the need to stoop, I stomped through Benji’s and my footprints, trying not to obliterate the wheel tracks from the golf cart. When I got to the juniper bush on the Anodyne Park side, I stretched myself thankfully. I tried to clean the muck from my shoes, but when I got inside Geraldine’s building, I took them off: no point adding mud to my other iniquities in Lisa’s eyes.

Getting inside Geraldine’s building didn’t require any special skill, just the time-honored method of pressing apartment bells until someone buzzed me in. An old person in Chicago would have been more cautious,

but they were a trusting bunch in Anodyne Park, at least trusting in their guard at the gate.

At Geraldine Graham’s own front door, Lisa answered my insistent ring. She was so startled she didn’t react at all for a second. By the time she decided to slam the door in my face, I had given her a genial “good evening,” dropped my shoes outside the door, and moved past her into the hallway. I could hear Ms. Graham calling from the living room, demanding to know who was at the door.

I went in to greet her, and had the satisfaction of hearing her admonish Lisa for trying to keep me out: I was there at Geraldine’s request, to tell her what had happened at Larchmont on Friday night. When I’d run through enough of the highlights-including my interrogation by the FBI-to satisfy her, I finally turned to my own agenda.

“I know we had an appointment for tomorrow afternoon,” I said, “but I had Edwards Bayard with me this afternoon and he told me an odd tale.” “Edwards? I suppose he came out here because of the girl.”

“Among other things. Do you know, I actually found him in Olin Taverner’s apartment Thursday night? He had broken in, trying to find some secret papers that Taverner had promised him.”

“How extraordinary. And did he find the papers?” She did a good job, keeping a tone of light interest in her flutey voice, but her hands had clenched at her sides.

“No.” I waited for her hands to relax before adding, “but he did tell me about a letter he found from your mother to Calvin Bayard.”

“And I suppose you drove out here to tell me about it?” Her hands tightened again, but she still managed to keep her voice steady.

“Your mother wrote Calvin about depredations he was committing against her household, and a demand for restitution-or she would take action.”

The light bouncing from her heavy glasses made it impossible for me to see Geraldine’s eyes. “Mother thought she was a law unto herself. She defined theft according to her own canons.”

“And?” I prompted, when she fell silent again.

“I wrote a check for Calvin to one of his pet charities. It was a group Mother disapproved of, because it provided assistance to indigent Negroes