“Everything okay with you?” I asked.

She smiled, picked up her teacup, took a sip. Unhurried. “Me? God’s got me in the palm of his hand. And that’s the gospel truth.”

I eased toward the steps. “Good. That’s great. I’ve got to run. I’ll pop in later. We’ll catch up.” I hit the stairs and flew.

“Uh-huh. You do that. Real soon,” I heard her say, though by then I was half a flight down.

I was sweating buckets when I hit the backyard. When I glanced up, Mrs. Vincent was still rocking, calm as anything, watching.

* * *

I’d been warned away by a rich guy’s lawyer, and then caught flat-footed by a cute guy with a dubious connection to a dead man, and something didn’t smell right. Someone was lying, and I needed to find a link, a thread that would made everything make sense. Cease and desist. That’s what Felton warned. Fat chance. GPS calculated I’d hit Barrington Hills and the Ayers home in less than an hour, give or take a traffic jam or two. I’d figure out my game plan when I got there.

I drove more than thirty miles northwest of the city and knew I’d hit Barrington Hills when the trees got greener, the streets wider, and sleepy horse trails replaced the city’s clogged expressways. I circled the white gazebo in the center of the village a few times before GPS finally got it right and pointed me south.

The Ayerses’ place came up at me at the end of a country lane, looming large behind a high stone wall covered in English ivy. A black iron gate barred the circular drive, and entry here was strictly monitored by use of a discreetly placed intercom box. Behind me, BMWs, Bentleys, and Range Rovers whizzed past on meandering Woodhaven Lane, the name sounding like something out of a Disney princess movie. I punched the button, marveling at the castle beyond the gate, counting windows, losing interest after reaching twenty, waiting for someone to holler back. There was also a camera on the box, which, of course, made sense. If you live this exclusively, you’d want to see who it is that you’ve let beyond the velvet rope, or what would be the point of moving all the way out here?

“May I help you?” The voice was stately, deep.

It was probably a butler. A house this huge had to have a butler. “My name is Cass Raines. I’d like to speak with Mrs. Elizabeth Ayers? I’m a private investigator looking into the death of her son Timothy.” I held my ID up to the camera, and then smiled nicely.

“Mrs. Ayers is not accepting visitors at this time.”

I looked into the camera. “Perhaps I can arrange to come back at a more convenient time?”