Twelve-fifteen on Wednesday, I headed south on the 101, relieved to be in motion again. Once I delivered Reba to Vince's office, he could take charge of her and I'd be off the hook. The drive up Bella Sera was exactly as it had been on prior occasions, right down to the scent of bay laurel and the smell of dry grass. It had been thirteen days since I'd taken this route on my way to meet Nord Lafferty, wondering what he could possibly want with me. Escort his daughter home from prison. How complicated was that? In the days since we'd returned, her life had slowly come unraveled. The crazy part was that I liked her. Despite the differences between us, I responded to her out of the outrageous elements in my own nature. Watching her operate was like seeing a distorted version of myself, only larger than life and much more dangerous.

When I reached the property, the gates were standing open. As I rounded the bend in the drive, I saw the same Lincoln Continental and Mercedes sedan. Now a third vehicle sat beside the other two – this one a Jaguar convertible, a handsome dark green with a caramel interior that looked good enough to eat. I parked, leaving my car unlocked as I moved up the walk to the house. Reba's massive long-haired orange cat, Rags, sauntered out to greet me, looking at me with startling blue eyes. I extended my hand and he sniffed at my fingers. He allowed me to scratch his head, nudging me repeatedly to keep the action afloat.

I rang the bell and waited while he circled my legs, leaving long orange hairs on the legs of my jeans. From inside, I heard the muffled tap of high heels on hard marble tile. The door was opened by a woman I immediately pegged as the legendary Lucinda. She appeared to be in her midforties, thanks to the work of a first-rate plastic surgeon. I knew this because her neck and hands were fifteen years older than her face. Her hair was short, streaked with varying shades of blond as though bleached by the sun. She was slim and beautifully dressed in a designer outfit I recognized, though I'd forgotten the name. The two-piece black knit was banded in white and the jacket had brass buttons running down the front. The knee-length skirt revealed a knotty set of calves. "Yes?"

"I'm Kinsey Millhone. Could you tell Reba I'm here?"

She studied me carefully with eyes as dark as tar. "She's not home. Is this something I can help you with?"

"Ah, no. Don't think so. I'll just wait for her."

"You must be the private investigator Nord's spoken of. I'm Lucinda Cunningham. I'm a friend of the family," she said, extending her hand.

"Nice meeting you," I said, shaking hands with her. "Did Reba say when she'd be home?"

"I'm afraid not. It might help if you told me what this was about."