“No,” Henry said, and yanked Effie’s wig off. He laughed nervously. It might all have been in good fun, but the look on Effie’s face had been turning deadly. “It’s giving me the heebie-jeebies,” he said.

They replaced their wigs—except for Alma, who kept her glittery red flapper’s wig on—and made their way downstairs, where the rooms were more open and identifiable. There was an elegant dining room with a table that could have sat a dozen people, and presiding over it was a large oil painting of a jester playing a lute. The kitchen, when Max found the light, was bright and spacious, with a large island range and dozens of hanging pots and pans, and the walk-in pantry was stocked with nonperishables. Through another passageway they entered a beautifully furnished den that smelled strongly of pipe tobacco. Alma had turned all the lamps on. The walls were dark wood. A stone hearth dominated the room, and over it hung two crossed swords. There was a sprawling couch of brown leather in three sections, an entire wall of books, a grizzly bear standing up on its hind legs, shelves of curios and artifacts, and a bar.

“I need a drink,” Clara said.

Max had picked up a picture from an end table, a photograph that seemed to be from the turn of the century, of a young woman lying on a cushion wearing several strings of pearls. “This must be the lady of the house. You kind of looked like her, Hank, with your wig on.”

Clara poured bourbon into four expensive-looking highball glasses and passed them around to Max and Effie and Henry. Alma seemed deeply absorbed in the shelves of curios. Max put on a record, over Clara’s protestations, and soon a mischievous-sounding aria was playing, a woman’s voice singing in French, interrupted occasionally by a loud chorus and a crash of cymbals. According to Max, she was singing, Love is a rebellious bird, and nothing can tame it.