Markham Suss’s high-dome pate, sun-splotched and naked save for white wisps curling above heavy-lobed ears, connoted nothing but advanced age. The same went for snow-puff eyebrows and a bulbous nose. But all that surrendered to crinkly bright eyes and an impish, boyish upturn of lip. The end result was a handsome man of a certain age projecting youthful exuberance.

Perhaps exuberance had something to do with the sum he’d gotten for his company: eighty-four million dollars, all cash.

When asked by L.A. Trade Quarterly whether he planned another venture in the rag trade, Markham Suss’s reply was unqualified: “Not a chance and I’d give you the same answer even if I wasn’t encumbered by a noncompetition clause. I’m going to embrace my good fortune and make creative use of my newfound freedom.”

Those same sentiments had found their way to his SukRose profile.

For all his bravado, just another man fighting mortality and shouting Look at me?

I turned to the nonbusiness references.

Two cited Markham and Leona Suss as donors at charity functions. The beneficiaries were a retirement home for screen actors and an inner-city arts program.

The third was a Beverly Hills Courier social-pages item citing a benefit for breast cancer at the Crystal Visions Art Glass Gallery in Encino.

That one featured a full-color illustration.

Markham and Leona Suss, flanked by two sons and daughters-in-law, had posed in front of an array of vitreous abstraction.

Tara Sly’s Sugar Daddy wore a navy blazer, aqua T-shirt, and indigo jeans. Trim man but the shirt stretched over a paunch that he seemed to flaunt.

Leona Suss was tall, bony, black-haired, around her husband’s age. Her pink leather jumpsuit was body-conscious. Enormous horn-rimmed glasses distracted from the rest of her face.

The tendency for son to favor father continued with Dr. Franklin Suss, bald, lean-but-potbellied, dressed identically to Markham but for a maroon T-shirt. Clutching his arm was Dr. Isabel Suss, a short, compact brunette in an olive-drab pantsuit.

The genetic train ground to a halt at Philip Suss, who appeared around the same age as his brother. Several inches taller than Markham and Frank, he sported a full head of dark wavy hair, a thicker, broader build, and a flat belly. A rust-colored caftan-type garment hung nearly to his knees.

His shapely blond wife was attired in an orange sari embroidered with gold thread and was identified as the owner of the glass gallery.

Connie Longellos-Suss.

I searched using her name as a keyword, found nothing. Tried crystal visions and learned on an art glass site that the gallery had closed six months ago.

I ran searches on both sons, learned about Isabel in the process. She and Franklin practiced together as dermatologists in Beverly Hills.

If Philip Suss was gainfully employed, the Internet hadn’t found out.

Printing what I needed, I made my way to the kitchen.