He poured the tea, then left. Everyone took a sip of iced tea.

“Excellent,” Morales said.

Croft let Morales do the talking; he took a cookie and watched the woman closely.

“An investigation?” Barbara said. “What sort of investigation?”

“Early this morning, before dawn, an airplane exploded at Santa Monica Airport. Perhaps you saw something about it on TV.”

“No, I haven’t seen a TV all day. Was anyone hurt?”

“Only the man who placed the bomb in the nose of the airplane,” Morales said. He decided not to tell her Gregg was dead.

“I’m a little confused,” Barbara said. “Why would you come all the way to Napa to ask me about the explosion of an airplane?”

“The airplane belonged to your ex-husband, Ed Eagle,” Morales said.

“And Ed wasn’t harmed?”

“No, he had not yet arrived at the airport.”

“How unfortunate,” she said with a smile.

“I take it you and your ex-husband are not on good terms.”

“I wouldn’t know, I haven’t seen him in years, and I was married to someone else after Ed and before Mr. Grosvenor. My former husband died in an automobile accident.”

“Mrs. Grosvenor, are you acquainted with an employee of Centurion Studios named Harry Gregg?”

“I don’t think so. Is he a producer there?”

Nice touch, Morales thought. “No, he worked in the armory, where the studio keeps weapons used in films.”

“I have an investment in Centurion Studios, but I have visited the place only once, for a stockholders’ meeting a few years ago. The only person I know there is Leo Goldman Junior, who is the chief executive.”

“I see,” Morales said. “Before we go any further, Mrs. Grosvenor, I’m required by law to read you your rights.” He took a card from his pocket and did so. “Do you wish to have an attorney present while I question you?”

“My goodness, no. Why would I need an attorney present?” Barbara said.

“As you wish, Mrs. Grosvenor. Now, I should tell you that Harry Gregg had placed the bomb in the airplane and, while he was doing so, the bomb exploded, killing Mr. Gregg instantly.”

“Poor Mr. Gregg,” Barbara said, with ironic sympathy.

“In our investigation of the explosion we visited Mr. Gregg’s home in Venice and searched it thoroughly,” Morales said. “During the search we opened a safe in his home office and found multiple weapons and a great deal of cash.”

Barbara stared at him blankly and shrugged, as if to say, “Why do I care?”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars of the cash was in a plain white envelope, which we believe was a partial payment for the planting of the bomb in Mr. Eagle’s airplane. We found your thumbprint on that envelope.”

Shit! Barbara thought, but her face betrayed only curiosity. “Heavens, why would my fingerprint be on an envelope in the home of this person—Mr. Gregg, was it?”