Milo was sitting on the big leather couch. No sign of Ashley Corey but Marissa sat next to him, looking like the victim of a natural disaster.

Perched on chairs to the right were a man and a woman. He was forty or so, dark-haired with a perfectly triangular soul patch below a pouting lower lip, wore a gray sharkskin suit and green crocodile loafers, no socks. She was midthirties, plump and pretty in a brown silk top over black leggings. She glanced at me, returned her attention to Milo.

I wondered how he’d introduce me. He didn’t, just said, “Okay,” and stood.

Soul Patch said, “We’re done?”

Milo said, “Not quite.”

Soul looked at his watch.

Milo said, “I’ll be quick, Mr. Ballou.”

Mr. Ballou’s lower lip didn’t take the news well but the rest of him sat there.

Milo led me into the giant kitchen where I’d fetched water for the Corey sisters. This time I took in details.

What had to be a thousand square feet, one of those designer “caterer-ready” showpieces rarely used for anything beyond microwaving.

Milo kept going, past the dual Traulsen fridges, the nine-burner Wolf range, the quartet of sinks, a host of warming drawers, convection ovens, commercial-sized dishwashers, equipment I couldn’t identify. Everything was brushed steel and black wood and white marble.

The room echoed as Milo ended up at the far end, where the space tapered to an eat-in breakfast area. Rusticized table and chairs centered an octagonal area that was mostly windows, offering an eyeful of lawn, well-placed shrubbery, and mountainside.

Pretty, but the relevant view was interior.

The table could accommodate eight but was set for two. The menu du jour was a pair of tossed salads, now wilted, wineglasses half poured with something the color of straw, a crystal pitcher of water, ocher-colored plates arranged precisely.

Boneless grilled chicken breasts, blanched fennel, cakes of little round things that were probably lentils. On smaller plates, some sort of dried fruit concoction was molded like sand in a child’s beach bucket.

On a nearby counter stood a wicker basket of grapes, peaches, and plums.

I said, “Bon appétit.”

Milo said, “Goddammit, I’m never gonna be hungry again.”

That was as likely as the Messiah detouring to the craps tables in Reno.

I said, “See what you mean.”

We returned to the great room. Milo said, “Please repeat what you told me, Mr. Ballou.”

Ballou, warming to his new audience of one, smiled and gave a finger-wave. “Mick Ballou, West Valley Executive Properties. I’ve got the exclusive listing on this wonderful estate. It looked great from the outset but obviously we wanted to explore a bit of staging. To make it more polished but lived-in, you know?”

Marissa Corey made a choking sound and began dabbing her eyes furiously.