“I watched the television news tonight,” I said when she answered. “The sheriff seemed pretty convinced that Mr. Whitby drowned on purpose.” “We didn’t see anything to suggest foul play,” she said.

“Deputy, I have Mr. Whitby’s sister with me. They were pretty close; she finds it hard to believe her brother committed suicide.”

“It’s always a struggle for the family,” Protheroe said.

“They find his car?” I asked. “Or discover how he got to Larchmont Hall? It’s what, about five rniles from the nearest train station. Do they have a cab service out there?”

A long pause told me Protheroe realized they had a biggish hole in their solution to Whitby’s death. I didn’t push on the point.

“Ms. Whitby’s hired me to ask a few questions. Ordinarily, I advise the family to get a private autopsy when they’re not satisfied with the medical examiner. But the mother only wants to get her son out of Chicago and interred; she won’t consent to a tox screen or anything else.”

“Then you have a problem, don’t you?” Protheroe wasn’t hostile, just cautious.

“Of course, if the paperwork for the body got misfiled for three or four days, I might come up with a different reason for why Mr. Whitby was in New Solway than just that he stumbled out there to die. I might find his car. I might find something that would make Dr. Hastings want to reopen the autopsy without anyone looking bad.”

“And why should I risk my career on this?” Protheroe demanded. “Oh, because I think you went into law enforcement for the same reason I did: you care more about justice than jelly doughnuts.”

“Don’t knock jelly doughnuts. They’ve saved me more times than my Kevlar vest.” She broke the connection.

“Will the person you just talked to help?” Harriet said anxiously.

“I think so. We won’t know until your mother tries to claim your brother’s body tomorrow.”

Amy Blount looked at me with respect: I had a feeling she hadn’t

expected me to come through for her. “We should let you get to bed. Did you get sick from trying to rescue Marc?”

“It’s just a cold,” I said gruffly. “Who can I talk to tomorrow who might know what Mr. Whitby was working on, or what might have taken him out to New Solway? Did he have a girlfriend, or any close men friends here?”

Harriet rubbed the crease between her eyes. “If he was dating anyone in a serious way, it was still too recent for him to have told me or Mother. His editor is a man named Simon Hendricks; he would know what Marc was working on-if he was writing for T-square. Marc did freelance stuff, too, you know. As for his friends, I can’t think right now. I know his college friends, but not his Chicago ones.”

“I’ll start with the magazine in the morning,” I said. “And maybe I can ask your mother about his friends?”

She gave another fleeting smile. “Better not-Mother would be terribly upset to find out I’d hired you.”