“Yes, darling, I know you’re ready to get on your horse and raise the siege of Orleans.” Renee smiled fondly at her granddaughter. “We can talk about it over dinner. Unless your friend is staying?”

“Oh. Oh. This isn’t a friend. It’s-” She floundered, unable to remember my name.

I stood. “I’m V I. Warshawski, Ms. Bayard. I’m a private investigator, although I originally trained as a lawyer.”

Catherine made a fast recovery. “I’m doing a story on her. On her work, I mean, for Vineleaves, you know, the school newspaper. A lot of kids meet private eyes who’ve been working on their parents’ divorces, but I figure not too many know anything about murder investigations.”

If Renee Bayard found her granddaughter’s restless manner odd, she didn’t comment on it: she was more concerned with me, saying in a voice heavy with censure, “Murder investigations? Why did you seek out my granddaughter?”

Catherine once more leapt into evasive action. “She didn’t, Gran. I mean, I called her. I had the idea, and I knew Mr. Graham worked with a lot of investigators, so I called and asked if he could suggest someone.”

“Mr. Graham needs a murder investigator?” Renee Bayard persisted, watching me sharply.

“Most of my work involves financial and industrial crime,” I said. “But some of my cases have included murders, and that’s always sexier to young people than someone shredding company papers to keep their financial fiddles secret.”

Renee Bayard gave a little nod, as if to acknowledge that I’d scored a point. “And are you working on something now for Mr. Graham?”

“Just think, Gran, she found a dead man in the pool out at Mr. Graham’s old home,” Catherine intervened.

“So it was you who found that unfortunate young man,” Renee Bayard said to me. “What made you look for him to begin with? Was that what Mr. Graham hired you to do?”

I smiled. “My clients appreciate having their private affairs kept private, ma’am. But I will tell you I found Marcus Whitby completely by accident. I was looking for-something else-and tumbled on him. Literally.”

“And you’re regaling my granddaughter with this tale?”

“We hadn’t got that far. Catherine was more interested in the techniques investigators use for getting information. She shows a remarkable capacity for imagining ways to circumvent the law.”

Renee Bayard frowned at me, perhaps because she found my words unacceptably frivolous, or maybe because she didn’t want me to encourage her granddaughter’s lawlessness: a girl enterprising enough to climb out through her bedroom window and drive off in the middle of the night probably had plenty of other escapades under her belt.

“Do you have any idea how the young man-Whitney, is it?-came to die out at Larchmont? Is there any thought of whether it was an accident or intentional?” Renee Bayard asked.

“Whitby. I don’t know what the DuPage sheriff is thinking, but Catherine has just been explaining to me that Rick Salvi is an old friend of your family. Salvi might say more to you than he would tell the press.”