Mariëtte gripped her knees with her hands and gave me a blue glare. “We were driven out—my family. Forced into exile after the United Kingdom sold us out to Mugabe. I hold dual passports, British and American, but Rhodesia will always be my home.”

“I apologize for the presumption.”

She glowered at me a while longer, then reached down and began to stroke the water spaniel with such force that the dog cried out. “You need to brush her coat, Bibi. Look how tangled it is!”

“Mother, you’re hurting her.”

I cleared my throat. “I should tell you in advance I only have an hour.”

Mariëtte glanced up from the dog, eyes still fierce. “What do you know about my late father-in-law?”

“That he died while duck hunting—”

“I am not asking what you know of his death. What do you know about Eben Chamberlain, the man? From your blank expression, I can see you know nothing.”

I sipped my coffee and let her instruct me.

“Eben Chamberlain held a bachelor’s degree in classical history from Cornell and a Ph.D. from Cambridge. But before he entered the academy, he served his country as a member of the foreign service.”

“He was a spook,” said Bibi.

“He was not a spook. After leaving the government, he began his teaching career at Bryn Mawr, moved to Princeton, and ended as dean of Bollingbrook. He wrote five books, the last of which, about Xenophon and the Ten Thousand, is considered the definitive text. He was a man of catholic interests. An expert in the cause to preserve heirloom apple varieties, he served on the board of the World Seed Vault on Baffin Island.”

“You left out his passion for ducks,” said Bibi, exhaling a vapor cloud.

Mariëtte indicated several lifelike waterfowl sculptures displayed around the parlor. “He achieved some acclaim as a wood artist late in life. His bird carvings are in the collections of the Ward Museum of Wildfowl Art and the Wendell Gilley Museum.”

“They’re magnificent.”

I was particularly taken with his gadwall hen. The professor had captured the duck’s orange underbill. It was a subtle detail many carvers—especially those who didn’t hunt—overlooked.

Mariëtte continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “He was married to the same woman for fifty years—Glenna predeceased him—and they had two sons, also deceased. I was married to the elder of the two, Artemus. Eben left behind three grandchildren, all girls, of which Bibi is the youngest.”

I put down my empty cup beside my crumb-strewn plate.

“It sounds like he lived a remarkably full life.”

“Indeed, he did.”

“Show him the picture, Mother,” said Bibi.

Mariëtte handed me a framed portrait of the man. She’d kept it facedown on the table beside her and presented it now with great reverence. I tried not to get fingerprints on the professor’s distinguished mug.