“What should I say?” Amy asked.

“Mare’s assistant-Aretha Cummings-thinks Hendricks was jealous of Mare’s abilities. Start with Aretha, see if you can get something specific to use as a lever. Usually, two emotions start people talking-resentment or sympathy. So try to get Hendricks feeling sorry for Harriet and the Whitbys. Talk about their need for closure. But if that doesn’t work, see if anything Aretha tells you will goad him into revealing something. Augustus Llewellyn, he owns T-square and all those other magazines, has a policy against talking to anyone at Bayard. I want to know if that’s truly a policy about not going to any competing publisher, or if there’s some specific issue between Llewellyn’s enterprise and Bayard’s. The guy in the cubicle next to Marc, Jason Tompkin, seems willing to talk.”

“I can try,” she said doubtfully, “but I’m not very skillful sorting out office politics.”

I was about to give her a hearty pep talk, but her words triggered a memory from my encounter with Renee Bayard. “I think you’re up to the job-but there is something you might find on the Web or the SEC or even from Aretha Cummings: Calvin Bayard helped Llewellyn get his original financing. There’s some history there, something that made Renee Bayard think Llewellyn wouldn’t respond to a call from her. See if you can

pick up anything on that. If I manage to see Calvin Bayard, I’ll ask him, too. Let’s talk tonight, okay?”

While I finished my smoothie, I called Mary Louise. We had a quick chat about her new job, which she confided was more work and less excitement than she’d hoped for. As I’d thought, she knew a funeral director whose fees were reasonable and who knew the ropes at the county morgues. First I called Deputy Protheroe, and told her the paperwork on Marc Whitby’s body might be getting ready to show up. Then I called Mary Louise’s funeral director, who set up the transfer for the next morning. Finally, I left a message on Vishnikov’s voice mail to tell him to expect Marc Whitby’s body. Only then did I reenter traffic.

With both hands on the wheel I was the model of the good driver, feeling superior to the people with books propped on steering wheels, cell phones in ears, hamburgers in mouths. As if to reward me, I had an easy run all the way from Kedzie to the tollway, and made it to the Warrenville Road exit well ahead of the afternoon rush.

When I reached the turnoff to Coverdale Lane, I pulled over to inspect my detail map. The woods behind Larchmont Hall belonged to a sort of common area in the middle of New Solway. The Bayard and Larchmont estates were about four miles apart if you followed the road, but only a mile if you went through the woods. I supposed that’s what Catherine did Sunday night-skittered through the underbrush home. Even if I hadn’t fallen in on top of Marc Whitby, I probably couldn’t have kept up with her in the dark through woods she knew well.