He felt awkward. All during the drive up to Vernon Jake had wondered what he would say to Mrs. Sinclair, how he could explain his reason for visiting her. During the two-hour drive, the car radio had played seven ads for Harmon Dant. Jake had counted them. Seven. Dant’s ads were on every radio station, pushing his conservative message of cutting taxes, ending legalized abortion, cracking down on crime. Fishing around the radio dial, Jake could find no ads for Tomlinson. Not one.

Mrs. Sinclair smiled vacantly at Jake. “Would you like some tea?”

It was past time for lunch, but Jake answered, “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

She had greeted him at the front door when he’d rung the bell. As far as Jake could tell, the house was empty except for her. No servants in sight. No relatives. Does she live in this mausoleum all by herself? he wondered.

“You said you worked with my husband?”

Jake started to shake his head, caught himself, and replied, “I’m working with Franklin Tomlinson on his campaign to be elected to the U.S. Senate. Mr. Tomlinson thinks that your husband’s MHD power generation program could be very good for this state—and the nation.”

“That’s nice,” said Mrs. Sinclair.

Wondering what on earth he should be saying, Jake blurted, “You have a very nice house here.”

She nodded pleasantly. “It was built by my great-grandfather. He founded this town, you know. It’s named after him.”

“Really.”

“He was a great man: a very successful businessman, a civic leader, a true philanthropist.”

“I see.”

Silence stretched between them. At last Mrs. Sinclair asked, “And how is Arlan these days?”

“Oh, he’s … he’s fine, Mrs. Sinclair. He’s very busy at the university, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Um … do you see much of him?”

Her smile remained undiminished. “Now and then. He comes up here once in a while.”

“That’s nice,” Jake said, feeling like an idiot.

Mrs. Sinclair got up from her chair and walked slowly to the window. Pulling the lace curtain back, she asked mildly, “Is that your car? It’s lovely.”

Jake hopped to his feet and went to the window beside her. Yes, she was actually looking at his beat-up old Mustang.

“It needs to be washed,” he apologized.

Turning to him, Mrs. Sinclair asked, “Could you do me a great favor, Mr … eh … oh dear, I can’t recall your name.”

“It’s Ross, ma’am. Jake Ross.”

“Could you do me a great favor, Mr. Ross?” she asked, her fleshy face puckering into a girlishly beseeching expression.

“A favor?”

“I have an appointment on the other side of town, but my car’s in the shop. Would you be kind enough to drive me?”

“Sure,” Jake said. “Of course.”

“I won’t be a minute.” And she turned and hurried out of the parlor.