“I see,” I said. “Renee must have used the letter to force Olin to end his interrogation of Calvin. I haven’t been able to understand why Olin kept Calvin’s sins to himself, even after homosexuality in public life ceased to be so shocking. But all these years Renee must have used the note as an enforcer: if Olin betrayed Calvin, she would show the world the kind of man he was-not his being queer, but his willingness to betray your father to save his skin. And he kept quiet, until Marcus Whitby came along.” Darraugh finished his martini and ordered a second.

“Did you tell her she could always get the letter from you if she needed it?” I asked.

“This is a copy. I wrote it out for myself and carried it with me, not knowing what I’d do with it. I lived on the streets of New York for a year. I lived-as a prostitute, I guess you could call it that. Yes, I tried to live my father’s life, but I finally knew it wasn’t mine and went back to Exeter.” He

gave his wintry smile. “I was fortunate it was before AIDS. As it was, I experienced other nasty diseases and maladventures.”

I reached across the table to clasp his hand. He squeezed his eyes shut, but not before I’d seen the glint of candlelight on the tears in them.

After a moment, I pulled my hand away. “Why were you so angry last week over where my investigation was heading? You were threatening me, in a way that left me wondering whether I would or could ever work for you again.”

“Renee called me. She told me you were trying to dig up all that old dirt on my father, on Calvin, on my mother.” He bit his lips and turned his head away for a moment, then looked back at me. “I loved him. MacKenzie Graham was a good man, he was a good father. His death, his life, that’s a scar on a wound that still hurts. I thought you were trying to slice it open. I should have known you better.”

CHAPTER 57

Lovers Lost-and Found

During the next week, I had dinner with Darraugh several times. One evening, I almost went to bed with him in his East Lake Shore Drive condo. At the last minute, 1 realized I couldn’t do it-not as Penelope, faithful to the absent Ulysses, but as a detective: it was only loneliness, mine as well as his, that was drawing us together. That would pass, and when it did, I’d find it hard to work for him again. I think he understood. I think we parted on good terms.

Catherine stayed with me for over a week. Wisconsin officials held Renee briefly, but released her without filing charges. Those might come later, if the police machinery ground through all the forensic evidence around Marc Whitby’s death, but for now, Renee was home. In fact, she was back at work, running Bayard Publishing. She even appeared on Good Morning America to spin her version of what happened that night in Eagle River.