Milo phoned Jean Barone and after she got over the shock, she said yes, she’d drawn up Mrs. Mancusi’s will, preferred not to discuss client matters over the phone.

As we headed for Santa Monica, Milo said, “Maybe it’s me, but she sounded eager.”

Jean Barone met us in the cramped, empty lobby of her building, a two-story structure just west of Yale. The space needed freshening. She looked as if she’d just renewed her makeup.

She was a middle-aged, wavy-haired brunette packed tightly into a peacock-blue knockoff Chanel suit. After checking Milo’s I.D., she took us up in the elevator to her two-room suite. No name on the plain white door but hers. Below her degree, supplementary credentials as a Notary Public and Certified Tax Preparer.

Her office smelled of Shalimar. She took a seat behind a dark, wood-like desk. “So horrible about Mrs. Mancusi. Any idea who did this?”

“Not yet. Is there anything you can tell us about her, ma’am?”

“Not really. The only thing I did for her was draw up the will, and that was five years ago.”

“Who referred her to you?”

“The yellow pages. I’d just graduated, had no referral base yet. She was one of my only clients in six months. It was easy, basically boilerplate.”

She opened a drawer and drew out a single sheet of paper. “Here’s your copy. No confidentiality for deceased individuals.”

“There was no copy in Mrs. Mancusi’s house.”

“She didn’t want one,” said Barone. “Said I should keep it.”

“How come?”

Barone shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t want anyone finding it.”

Milo scanned the will. “This is all of it?”

“Given her situation, there was no need to get fancy. The estate was her house, plus a pension, a little cash in the bank. No liens, no encumbrances, no attachments.”

“Only one heir listed.”

“Her son,” said Barone. “I did suggest there were steps she could take to reduce the estate tax burden on him. Like putting the house into a joint trust with a lifetime usage clause for her. She wasn’t interested.”

“Why not?”

“She wouldn’t tell me and I didn’t pry. She was more interested in my hourly rate, clearly didn’t want to spend an extra dime.”

Milo handed me the will. In the event of Anthony Mancusi Jr.’s pre-deceasing his mother, everything was willed to the Salvation Army.

Milo said, “She talk at all about the son?”

“Is he a suspect?”

“We’re looking into everyone close to her.”

“Bet that’s not a huge crowd.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She was polite,” said Jean Barone, “but a little… I got the feeling she wasn’t too sociable. No interest in small talk, cut to the chase. Or maybe she was just minimizing the billable hours. You know that generation. Careful with a buck.”

“Unlike today’s generation,” said Milo.