Soft music—something new age, maybe an imitation of whale calls—streamed from unseen speakers. A pair of maids in white nylon pantsuits stopped their tidying as we entered. One was gray-haired and Slavic, the other African.

Leona Suss said, “Would you ladies mind shifting to another room, please—the library hasn’t been dusted in far too long.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

The cat leaped from her arms, landed silently, scooted away.

“Ooh, Manfred’s hungry, please see to his brunch.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

Leona motioned us to a ten-foot sofa adorned by silk shantung pillows. The facing Chippendale table bore a collection of black-and-white photos in gold easel-frames.

Two dozen or so glamour shots and stills from old movies, each featuring the same raven-haired beauty. In most she wore western clothes, in a few she posed on horseback.

Decades had passed, but no mistaking the subject. Leona Suss at her prime.

I said, “George Hurrell?”

She settled in an armchair, drew her legs to the side, folding like origami the way very lean people are able to do. “You knew Hurrell?”

“I know of him.”

“George was the greatest as well as a darling person,” she said. “He could make anyone look spectacular. Combine that with the raw material they gave him—Jane, Joan, Maureen, then the young ones—Sharon Stone. My God, the result was earth-stopping. George and I discussed several times doing a sitting but something always came up, so no, unfortunately these are the work of lesser talents. The studios had their own in-house people and, of course, there were always legions of journeymen eager to freelance.”

She played with her big white sunglasses. Diamonds or rhinestones studded the joints of the sidepieces. Similar but not identical to the shades Mystery had worn at the Fauborg.

A silver-nailed fingertip pinged the rim of a frame. “These are just your run-of-the-mill publicity nonsense.”

I said, “Did you act for a while?”

She smiled. “Some would say I’ve never stopped. Mark, for one. He enjoyed what he called my sense of drama, said I was his Little Movie Star, which, of course, is utter fooferaw. I made a grand total of eleven pictures, each a Grade C oater. Most typically, they used me as the brunette foil for the beautiful blond heroine. After that, I did oodles of episodic TV—you don’t want to know about me, you’re interested in Tara.”

She repeated the name, let out a low, breathy laugh. “Tara is a house, not a name, right fellas? A couple of times, Mark called her Tiara, which is even tackier, right? Perhaps the old fool’s memory was slipping. Either way I didn’t care, it reeked of trailer park.”

Milo said, “Do you know her last name?”

“No, sorry. Anything I know about her is limited to what Mark chose to tell me. Which was mercifully little.”

“Would you mind sharing what you do know?”