The interior of the Regan home looked like a photo spread out of Southern Living magazine—French country fireplaces, contemporary furniture, and three antlered deer staring down from the living room walls. Katy herself looked like a Stepford wife of indeterminate age. Caitlin knew from research that Brody Royal’s daughter was fifty-nine, but Katy already had the scared-cat face of the plastic surgery addict. When she answered the door, her eyes had a glaze that Caitlin read as the result of a couple of gin-and-tonics. Her polite drawl had the beginnings of a slur, as well. Caitlin hoped the alcohol might loosen the woman’s tongue.

The Regans’ living room looked out over the narrow oxbow of Lake Concordia, which reflected a thousand colored lights. Caitlin accepted the offer of a glass of sherry, though she detested the stuff, and watched her hostess walk to her kitchen to pour it. While Katy was out of sight, Caitlin switched on the miniature tape recorder in her purse.

Soon her glassy-eyed hostess handed her the sherry, then went to the chair opposite Caitlin and sat with her legs crossed so perfectly that she must have learned the art at some finishing school for southern belles. Caitlin found it difficult to reconcile this poise with her knowledge that Katy Regan had been forcibly committed to a mental institution where she’d been subjected to primitive electroshock therapy for nearly a year.

“You look very chic,” Mrs. Regan said, nodding at Caitlin’s black silk T-shirt and jeans. “I could never carry off that look.”

“Of course you could,” Caitlin said, smiling.

“Oh, no. But thank you. Aren’t you and the mayor getting married soon?”

Caitlin forced her mind to shift gears. “Ah … yes, we are. I mean, we were getting married this weekend, but some family issues came up. We’ll probably have the ceremony this spring.”

Katy Regan’s smile broadened. “Will it be a big wedding? Dunleith and the carriage? All that? I love big weddings.”

Caitlin forced herself to sip the sherry, then set down her glass. “Mrs. Regan, I’m sort of under a deadline.”

“Of course, dear. What would you like to know?”

She took a deep breath, then spoke in the most sympathetic voice she could muster. “I’m going to be honest with you. I didn’t really come here to talk about Christmas lights.”

The surgically augmented lips flattened into a tense smile. “I never thought you did. I’ve read your stories, Ms. Masters. You’ve never written anything but hard news.”

Caitlin was startled to hear such frank clarity from this seemingly airheaded woman. “The truth is, I’ve been working with Henry Sexton, and—”

“Oh, Lord,” Mrs. Regan cut in, her face a caricature of shock. “Wasn’t that terrible what happened to him?”

“Yes,” Caitlin said, sensing a chance for cooperation. “That’s why I’m working on this story now. And Mrs. Regan, I must tell you—”