“I have my reasons,” the sheriff said. “And since you all were in that room this evening at some point, then it would be natural to find your prints there anyway, wouldn’t it?”

I realized then what his reasons were. He wanted to see how we reacted to trying to speak normally in the presence of Mr. Goldman’s body. Perhaps he hoped that the killer would show signs of uneasiness under the strain. But from my experience killers can remain completely cool in such circumstances, can lie without batting an eyelid. That’s why they kill in the first place—that have the sort of personality that spurs them to take risks the rest of us couldn’t imagine.

“Let’s start with the widow,” Sheriff Billings said. “And the rest of you stay put. Nobody is to move from this room.”

“You want us to stay here?” one of the groundsmen asked, looking at his colleague.

“I’ll want to speak with the employees separately. Go and round up your pals and the household servants and I’ll be speaking to you shortly.”

“In here? In the house?” He looked at us uneasily.

“Better make it the kitchen. And perhaps someone could put on a pot of coffee. I’ve been on the job since seven this morning,” the sheriff said. After they had gone out of the front door, muttering to each other in Spanish, the sheriff turned to Mrs. Goldman. “Come along, Mrs. Goldman. Follow me.”

We watched them walk away, Mrs. Goldman walking as if she were a zombie. Barbara Kindell stood up as if to follow and assist her friend, but then sat down again. “It’s not right to put her through this after she’s just lost her husband,” she said. “That man is a bully and a brute. His wife may be a big fan of mine, but that won’t stop me from telling it like it is in my column this Sunday. And on my radio show too.”

“I suppose he’s just trying to do his job,” Darcy said. “He wants to catch us with our guard down to see if anyone cracks under the pressure of being in a room with the body.”

“I shall find it horrible,” Stella said. “It’s a sadistic thing to do, that brute grilling us with questions when he knows that poor Cy is lying there.”

“It will not bother me,” Juan said. “I have nothing to hide and I have seen bodies before. In Spain we are used to death in the bullring.”

“That’s also horrible,” Stella said. “I went to a bullfight once with Cy and swore I’d never go again. Spain is such a cruel country.”

“Oh and America is not?” Juan demanded. “Here you shoot each other with guns, no? Al Capone and the gangsters? At least in Spain we fight with honor.”

“Easy, old man.” Craig put a hand on Juan’s shoulder.