No smile. No eye twinkle. I assumed he was human and not a robot, but I had no outward evidence of that fact. I stepped inside, then turned and watched Boykin back himself out, taking the doors with him. The ceiling was high and molded, the room long and Versailles-like. For want of anything better to do, I strolled around, reading the titles on the bookshelves, scanning the gilded tchotchkes on the end tables. There was a fireplace big enough to roast an elephant, if one were inclined to do such a thing, and on the mantel stood family photos in sterling-silver frames. I drew closer to study them, hoping to learn something of the Ayers family dynamic. I easily recognized Tim from his photo in the papers. He stood with his family: the disagreeable Stephen, I assumed; a woman who must have been Mrs. Ayers; a stern-looking old man, who had to be the late patriarch of the clan. Everyone looked unhappy and resigned, hard to say which was worse. I picked one of the photos up to look at it more closely, paying special attention to Tim. Resignation was worse, I decided.

The doors opened and I turned to see Mrs. Ayers standing in the doorway. I put the photograph back on the mantel and stood waiting for her to enter. She wore pearls and heels, and her golden hair streaked with wisps of gray looked like swirls of vanilla ice cream on top of a very pale cone. Maybe she was in her early fifties, but it was hard to tell when it appeared every cosmetic effort had been made in an attempt to turn back time. Icy blue eyes took a full and thorough assessment. I stood there, letting her get a good look.

“Ms. Raines.”

She glided over to a chair covered in fine gold linen with lion’s paws at the arms and legs, her dress swishing as she went. “Please sit.”

I took a seat on the expensive couch across from her, the two of us separated by a glass table with nothing on it, not even a finger smudge.

“Coffee? Tea?”

“No. Thank you.”

But the doors opened, anyway, and Boykin entered carrying a silver tray with a teapot and china cups on it. He set the tray on the table and proceeded to pour Mrs. Ayers a cup of tea, setting it neatly beside her on a dainty saucer. She ignored the cup. She ignored Boykin. She appeared to be waiting for something. I politely declined Boykin’s offer of tea and he quietly slipped out of the room again, closing the doors. Ayers reached for the cup, took a sip, ignoring me, then set the cup down and folded steady hands in her lap.

“How much?” she asked.

I was sure I’d heard her right, but I asked, anyway. “Excuse me?”