“What?” She was appalled. “But that’s ridiculous!”

“One would think,” Ashley remarked dryly.

“But we don’t know anyone by that name! I’m sure of it. Miss Wakefield, there must be a terrible mistake—”

“I hope so,” Ashley said gravely. “Mrs. Stevens, last night my brother, David, and I found your husband back on the farm. He had been slightly injured—”

“Oh, no.” She slumped against the counter. “Oh, God, what’s he doing?”

“He wasn’t seriously hurt, Mrs. Stevens, I assure you.”

Nodding that she understood, she gripped the sides of the counter. “Go on. Please.”

“He left a little while later—we’d given him some ice, let him rest up.” Tact not being her long suit, Ashley thought she was doing well. “He didn’t want a doctor.”

“Where was he hurt?”

“On the back of the neck.” That sounded much less ominous than the head. “Mrs. Stevens, my uncle wasn’t home at the time. At the moment, I don’t know where either of them is—or what their business with each other might be. I was wondering if perhaps you could help me figure out just how a San Diego attorney and a Massachusetts farmer might know each other.”

Jeremy touched Elaine’s rigid arm. “Mac said he’d call, Elaine. Maybe we should wait to hear from him.”

Her voice choked. “He’s crazy, isn’t he?”

“No, Elaine.” His tone was gentle, his anger apparent only in his eyes, which fastened stonily on Ashley.

She sighed. “Mrs. Stevens, your husband struck me as being remarkably sane.” I’ll bet most jewel thieves are—ex or otherwise, she thought. “You’ve never heard him mention a Bartholomew Wakefield?”

“No.”

“Before he came to Massachusetts, my uncle lived in Tennessee, in the Nashville area. When my parents died, he took us up to the farm and raised us. That was in 1957. Was your husband in Tennessee then or before?”

“I don’t think so.”

“All right. My uncle is half English and half Polish. He and my parents left England in 1947. Could your husband have known him in England?”

“No. Mac didn’t go to England until after we’d met—the early sixties. We were already married.”

Jeremy put his arm over Elaine’s shoulder. Ashley sat at the edge of her chair, feeling unreasonably alone. She noted Jeremy’s untucked shirt, his sockless ankles, his close-fitting jeans. Maybe he was a decent man after all. It was MacGregor Stevens who had the mysterious past, the unexplained connections. Maybe Jeremy hadn’t lied about their relationship; they were colleagues, friends.

“Mrs. Stevens,” Ashley went on, focusing on what she’d come here for. “What did your husband do before he and Jeremy’s father founded their law firm?”

“Ashley, for God’s sake,” Jeremy spat.

Elaine patted his arm. “It’s all right, Jeremy. Really. If this will help make any sense of what’s going on...” She attempted an encouraging smile. “Mac and I met in late 1957—here in San Diego, in fact. Before that he did legal work with the State Department.”

“In Washington?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of legal work, Mrs. Stevens?”