“He must’ve taken pains to hide things from Cricket,” I said to my sister, not wanting to load her down with the ugly reality of our parents’ estrangement. “Even if they’d fallen out of love, I think he would’ve wanted to protect her.”

Wallis rolled her eyes. “Bullshit, Daisy. He didn’t care. Clearly! All he cared about was the show. And how many hours have we spent performing for him, Dodo? How many years of our lives have we wasted?”

“Girls,” Cricket said from the doorway. “I can’t get ahold of Uncle Danny.” She meant our father’s former chief of staff, not our real uncle, just the kind of guy who liked to be called one. “He’s not picking up my calls. I know he went to law school. Was he ever a lawyer, before working for your father? I can’t remember. Maybe he can come over and help.”

I turned to Wallis. “His office is right off Farragut Square. He told me before the memorial. The exact address is in my planner, which is in my purse, which is on the table with the fake flowers in the hall. Can you go get him?”

“Why do I have to go?” Wallis frowned. “I’m not the one who needs a lawyer. Dad is dead anyway. What are they going to do? Prosecute a corpse?”

“You’re being a—”

“A what?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“Wallis.” I tried to stay calm, if only because someone had to be. “I need you to go downtown and convince Uncle Danny to brave the ridicule and come over here, so he can talk to the guys who are, as we speak, reading my old diary and opening the drawer where you hide your vibrator.”

“How in the world are you so rational right now?” she asked me. “How are you not joining me in this freak-out?”

“Wallis,” I repeated, taking a breath. “We don’t have time for this.”

“God, Daisy! Who even are you right now?” she said, and without a backward glance, she left—stormed, rather—out of the kitchen, smoke in her wake.

“She didn’t mean that.” My mother slumped against the doorframe. “She’s just upset.”

“We all are,” I said, hands on my hips, wondering if we should offer the Feds the remains of yesterday’s catering stuffed in the fridge. If only Miss Manners provided etiquette for raids! “She doesn’t have to take her anger out on me.”

“She’s young,” Cricket said. “She’s still learning.”

“She’s twenty-five.” Something crashed in the parlor, and I closed my eyes, hoping it was just a lamp, and not the urn that contained my grandfather. “She’s not that young.”

“Lord, Daisy, then what am I? A world heritage site? Might as well send a bus of tourists to snap some photos of me.”