Outside, the weather’s taken a turn, and the first thing I notice is not Sophie Rofrano but the rain that lashes against the railing of the lanai and the wind that bends the palms. Then a woman turns away from contemplation of the wild weather and startles at the sight of me. She’s wearing a pair of slacks the color of mustard and a white shirt, hair tied back by a patterned scarf, pocketbook tucked under her arm along with a newspaper. I consider what’s contained beneath that scarf, the knowledge behind those eyes. I ask her what the devil she’s doing here. She tells me she’s here to see Mrs. Lindquist.

“I’m afraid you’ve missed her. She’s off to pick up a package on the other side of the island. But she ought to be back before long. Something to drink? Lani’s bringing more coffee.”

“No, thank you.”

“You must have just come in off the morning boat.”

“Actually, I flew,” she says, a little smug.

“Did you, now? Must have been something important.”

She regards me warily and taps the newspaper with her index finger. I draw the cigarette case from the pocket of my trousers and tilt it in her direction. She shakes her head. I take one for myself and light it. I hope she doesn’t notice the trembling in my fingers, owing to those photographs back there in the study, the images that slide across my imagination, over and over. The sensation of drawing close to some small, hot, irresistible flame that will likely incinerate me.

“You might as well tell me,” I say, as carelessly as I’m able. “She’s already explained everything. Spilled the whole sack of beans.”

“Has she? Everything?”

“Oh, yes.” I hold up my left hand and cross the first two fingers. “We’re like that, Irene and me. As soon as she realized I was Sam Mallory’s daughter—”

“What?”

“Oh, yes. Don’t you remember little Pixie?” I spread my arms. “All grown up, as you see.”

Sophie Rofrano drops into a chair and stares at me. Agape, I believe, is the word.

“So if you’ve got something to say to Irene—”

She pulls the newspaper from under her arm and holds it out. It’s a copy of the Los Angeles Times, dated two days ago, folded to page four. In the left-hand column, a black headline hovers above a blurred photograph of an airplane in the middle of the desert.

The headline reads:

MORROW MYSTERY SOLVED AT LAST

Wreckage of Reclusive Publisher’s Aircraft Found in Spanish Desert

Bones Discovered in Shallow Grave Nearby Belong to George Morrow, Husband of Vanished Aviatrix Irene Foster