Sam walked out of Fishblate’s having ordered two suits—one in cream and one in bone white—four shirts, two ties, and a pair of canvas shoes. He stepped onto the bright street wearing a snappy, new, yellow Panama, so light a man could forget he had anything on his head at all. Gray Ellen wouldn’t be pleased with his extravagance, but he couldn’t walk around in this heat in that heavy wool sack he’d dragged down from Chicago. A man had to look like he belonged in a place.

Sam had a plan for tracking down Manly: David King’s mother. Sergeant Lockamy had said she was employed on Fifth, in one of the better homes. If he could get to her before she realized David was in no real trouble with the law, she might be scared enough to talk to him about Manly. If she knew where he was. If he was back. If.

He strolled down Fifth under the canopy of elms, enjoying the shade. At Fifth and Princess, he spotted two likely houses, both frame Victorians with gleaming wraparound porches and lavish gardens. He inquired at the nearer one. A colored maid with her head wrapped in an orange scarf opened the door.

“Mrs. King?” he asked politely.

“Mrs. King?” she repeated suspiciously. “Bessie?”

Sam nodded.

“She just a housekeeper. She ain’t done nothing wrong?”

“No, she’s not in any trouble. I just need to talk to her.”

“Across the street, that the house you want.” She pointed with the handle of her broom. “Colonel Waddell’s place.”

“Waddell?”

“Yes, suh. He live there, him and his missus.”

“Thank you.”

He crossed the empty street. As he was about to climb the stairs onto the porch, a woman appeared from the side garden. “May I help you?”

Sam introduced himself. She held out a hand covered by a soiled gardening glove, then, realizing, quickly withdrew her hand and peeled off the glove. She held out her hand again, and Sam took it lightly. It was pale and small.

It would have been more proper for someone else to make the introductions, but she was learning to be less formal about many things. “Mrs. Gabrielle deRosset Waddell,” she said, and curtsied slightly. She pronounced it Dare-oh-zet, emphasizing the last syllable. In her gardening apron, she was rather shapeless looking, but when she moved, Sam could see the slim lines of her figure.

“How do you do?” She can’t be any older than Gray Ellen, Sam thought. It was common for wealthy older men to marry younger women, but somehow, he hadn’t expected it in this case. He’d imagined the Colonel going home to a plump, matronly companion with a boxful of knitting and samplers. He had a new respect for the man. Gabrielle was striking—thick auburn hair, fine cheekbones, lovely brown eyes.

“May I offer you some refreshment? It’s such a hot day.”