Renee Bayard cocked her head at Catherine. “Trina, you shouldn’t call Sheriff Salvi a family friend. He’s a political acquaintance.”

She turned back to me. “I know you don’t want to reveal client secrets, but are you looking into young Whitney’s-no, Whitby’s-death? If he was murdered-my husband spends the whole year out in New Solway now.”

“We should call the Lantners,” Catherine said. “If there’s a murderer roaming around New Solway, they need to be on the lookout.”

I shook my head. “If Mr. Whitby was murdered, it was more likely by some homeowner out there who resented his presence on their land. I assumed when I found him it was an accident: I assumed he was meeting someone by appointment, and that he tripped on a loose brick by the pool and fell in-because that’s how I happened to find him.” I broke off to look at Catherine, fidgeting on her ottoman. “Wouldn’t it be helpful to take some notes, in case you actually decide to write up our interview?”

“Yes, darling,” Renee Bayard agreed. “You should never assume that you will have an accurate memory of what someone has said.”

Catherine glowered at me, but went to the work counter built into the far corner of the room and fished a spiral notebook from her backpack. Her grandmother frowned over what I’d said. “But if he was meeting someone out there, why haven’t they come forward?”

“He could have been having an affair with someone who lived out there and was taking advantage of the old Graham house standing empty, although he’d have to have a key to bypass the security system.”

Catherine jabbed her pencil through the holes in her notebook and started pulling apart the ends of the paper.

“Is that what you think?” her grandmother asked.

“I did at first, but he didn’t have any keys on him, not even his car keys. It’s possible they fell into the pond when he went in, but his car wasn’t anywhere on the grounds. I suppose the sheriff’s police will be finding out how he got there-he could have gone by train.” I wasn’t hopeful about that-Salvi seemed to want to wrap the story up in a package and be done with it. “After I met with Mr. Whitby’s associates at T-square this morning, I did wonder if he’d gone out there to consult your husband.”

Ms. Bayard’s hand went to her throat in a reflexive gesture of selfprotection. “Why would-what made you think that?”

“It was a leap. Mr. Whitby was doing a story on someone in the Federal Negro Theater of the thirties. You probably know they were pilloried in Congress for being Communists. I just thought-if some of Bayard Publishing’s writers had been blacklisted, Mr. Whitby might have wanted your husband’s inside view on how that affected them.”

“Mr. Bayard doesn’t grant interviews these days. If a journalist tried to call-well, our staff are very protective. They would have turned him away.” “Then maybe Mr. Whitby tried to pay a visit without an invitation,” I said, wondering whether it was Calvin or Renee’s decision that he didn’t grant interviews. “The T-Square staff don’t seem to know why Mr. Whitby went to New Solway-unless his editor, Simon Hendricks, does and won’t say. Hendricks says they have a policy against talking to anyone at Bayard Publishing.”