Before his trip to New York, DeVane had learned everything he could about the widow. She had led a reserved, if not quite withdrawn, existence since the end of her marriage. She was reputed to be a mild eccentric who fancied herself as something of a bohemian. There was a small circle of friends with whom she had regular get-togethers, most of them women, socialites she had known for years. Although she possessed abundant financial means, Melissa Phillips would sometimes rent out luxury suites in the spacious town house she had inherited, placing advertisements in the New York Observer, a weekly Manhattan newspaper with a large upscale readership. The monthly rates were expensive as listed, but Phillips’s leasing of the apartments sprang from a desire for companionship rather than income, and she showed a softness, even a patronlike generosity, toward a certain type of prospective occupant . . . or house guest, as she preferred to call each of her renters. Young people who aspired to careers in the arts often struck an empathic chord in her. Budding writers, musicians, dancers, and stage performers made for colorful house guests and lively evening conversation, and she would on occasion adjust her rents downward to ease their financial burdens, or in some cases defer its due date when their pursuit of the muse ran them lean.

The widow had shown a special affection for gifted, interesting men in their twenties and early thirties, and it was to them that her kindness was most often and fully extended.

DeVane had learned of this preference after reading an archived article taken from the New York Post’s Page Six, well known for its gossip columns about celebrities and members of Gotham society.

It had seemed a shining gift to him.

On the brownstone’s front stoop, he announced himself to a servant over the intercom and was told someone would be down to admit him in a few moments.

When the door opened, DeVane was not surprised to see Melissa Phillips herself standing in the entry. She was an attractive woman. Small framed, thin, her blond hair just slightly laced with gray.

The widow had appraised him with intent, pale blue eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Nemaine,” she said, and smiled. “I’d thought your appointment at that literary agency might delay you . . . it can be horrible getting up here from downtown.”

DeVane shrugged, returned her smile with one he had studied on other faces and taught himself to reproduce.

“A playwright’s timing has to be perfect, and I try not to miss my beats,” he said, taking her extended hand. Her fingers were long, slender. “It’s an honor, Mrs. Phillips. You have a distinguished reputation as a benefactress of the arts.”

A glint in the widow’s eyes. They met his own.

“I’m charmed and flattered to know my efforts are appreciated,” she said. “And please call me Melissa . . . I’m not that much older than you.”