“You don’t get it, do you?” I said to her. “Golden retrievers don’t feel guilty about their neighbors’ puppies. They don’t feel obligated to look after them till death.”

She agreed happily, tongue lolling. Whatever I said was fine as long as action accompanied it. We walked back to the car—or I walked and Peppy danced in a spiral around me to make sure I didn’t stray or go back into catatonia.

When we got home Mr. Contreras came bustling out with Lotty’s clean sheets and towels. I thanked him as best I could, but told him I wanted to be alone.

“I’d like to keep the dog awhile too. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure, doll, sure. Whatever you say. She misses your runs, that’s for certain, so she’d probably be glad to stay with you, make sure you haven’t forgotten her.”

Back in my own place, I tried Caroline again, but she was still either gone or refusing to talk to me. Disheartened, I sat at the piano and picked my way through “Ch’io scordi di te.” It had been Gabriella’s favorite aria and it suited my mood of melancholy self-pity to play it through, then work at singing it. I felt tears of bathetic sorrow pricking my eyelids and went back to the middle, where the soprano line is most melodic.

When the phone rang I jumped up eagerly, sure it was Caroline willing finally to talk to me.

“Miss Warshawski?” It was the quavering voice of Humboldt’s butler.

“Yes, Anton?” My voice was calm but an adrenaline surge cleared my lethargy like sunlight on fog.

“Mr. Humboldt would like to speak with you. Please hold.” The voice held frosty disapproval. Perhaps he thought Humboldt wanted to make me his mistress and he feared I was too low class for the tone of the Roanoke.

A minute or so went by. I tried to get Peppy to come to the phone and act as my secretary but she wasn’t interested. Finally Humboldt’s rich baritone vibrated the earpiece.

“Ms. Warshawski. I would be most grateful if you would pay me a visit this evening. I have someone with me whom you would be sorry not to meet.”

“Let’s see,” I said. “Dresberg and Jurshak are in the hospital. Troy is under arrest. Ron Kappelman isn’t of much interest to me anymore. Who you got left?”

He gave his hearty chuckle to show that Monday’s contretemps was just an unhappy memory. “You’re always so direct, Ms. Warshawski. I assure you there will be no gunplay if you will pay me the courtesy of a visit.”

“Knives? Hypodermics? Vats of chemicals?”

He laughed again. “Let us just say you would regret it forever if you did not meet my visitor. I’ll send my car for you at six.”

“You’re very kind,” I said formally, “but I prefer to drive myself. And I will bring a friend with me.”

My heart was pounding when I hung up, and wild surmises flashed through my mind. He had Caroline hostage, or Lotty. I couldn’t check on Caroline, but I did phone Lotty at the clinic. When she came to the phone, surprised at my urgency, I explained where I was going.