“Not today,” I said. “If Utah’s your sister, are you Wyoming or Nevada?”

The girl ignored me and dived into the pool, so smoothly that she barely caused a ripple. She surfaced a third of the way down her lane. Her form was definitely better than mine.

The woman boosted Utah out of the pool, then hoisted herself out with one smooth push from her upper arm. A fourth woman, dark and round as a Gauguin portrait, came out of the shadows and wrapped a towel around the smaller girl. She silently handed another towel to the mother, then walked off with Utah.

“I’m Eleanor Baladine. I hope this is important, because you’re interrupting my training program.”

“The Sydney Olympics?” I asked.

“I know you think you’re being funny,” she said coldly. “Robert and I don’t know how good our girls may get, but they could have a shot at a team in ten years. Especially Utah—although Madison is looking better all the time. And Rhiannon Trant is shaping up fast, even though she only started last summer.”

Rhiannon Trant? Daughter of Edmund, Murray’s new owner? That explained the Global plate out front—I’d thought it stood for Baladine’s plans for world domination. “That’s good. It would be a shame if they only swam for fun.”

“No one swims for fun. You either compete or you aren’t motivated enough to get in the water. I missed an Olympic spot by six–tenths of a second. I don’t want my girls to lose out like that.”

She broke off to call out an instruction to Madison. One of the women in the chaise longues, feeling Rhiannon was being neglected, sat up to call encouragement to her. If she was Edmund Trant’s wife, no wonder gossip columnists like Regine Mauger were slobbering over her. It wasn’t just her gold hair and tan, but the way she moved, even in a beach chair, and the little twitch of humor at her mouth, as if laughing at herself for caring about her daughter’s ability to compete in a neighborhood pool. She made me feel as wide and clumsy as young Robbie.

“I’m V. I. Warshawski.” I approached the pair in the chaise longues. “I’m a detective who has some questions for Ms. Baladine about Nicola Aguinaldo.”

Eleanor Baladine rushed over. “My children’s old nanny, you know, the one we had to send to Coolis for robbery—”

“Burglary, wasn’t it?” I interrupted. “Or did she break in and use a weapon?”

“Excuse me, Detective.” Baladine poured rich sarcasm over her words. “Not being used to the criminal element, I don’t understand these distinctions.”

“How did you hire Ms. Aguinaldo to begin with?” I asked.