They drove past a pond and up a steep driveway, emerging from the trees to find a large, shingled building with broad porches on two sides.

“It’s beautiful,” Holly said. “It reminds me of the house we just saw—what was it called?”

“The Rocks. It belonged to an architect named Ehrick Rossiter, who designed twenty-seven houses and public buildings in this little village, twenty-two of which still stand. The Mayflower is one of them, and it’s been gorgeously renovated.”

Stone and Holly sat at a table overlooking the back lawn and garden, which were surrounded by old trees.

“So, is a country house a big part of living in New York?” Holly asked.

“A very big part of it. A lot of people have houses out on the eastern end of Long Island, in the Hamptons, but that’s too expensive and too crowded for me. Washington is just perfect—nice village, maybe the most beautiful in Connecticut, lovely countryside, and interesting people.”

“Nobody in Florida has a country house,” Holly said. “I wonder why?”

“Not enough contrast between first and second houses.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

They dined on salads, veal chops, and a bottle of California Cabernet. The waiter had just brought coffee when Holly suddenly sat up straight. “Something’s wrong,” she said.

“Didn’t you like the food?”

“No, not that. Something’s wrong back at the house.”

“Are you telepathic?”

“No, but Daisy may be. We have to go.”

Stone signed the bill, and they hurried back to the car. “Does this sort of thing happen to you often?”

“No, never before, but it’s a very strong feeling. Drive faster.”

Stone did the best he could, and five minutes later they turned into his drive and got out of the car. The door to the cottage stood wide open. “I didn’t leave the door open. Did you?”

“No. Where’s Daisy?”

They arrived at the front door to find Daisy sitting in the front hall, staring at the door. She ran to Holly.

“Hey, baby,” Holly cooed. “What’s wrong?”

Stone reached down and picked up a piece of blue cloth dotted with blood. “Somebody’s missing part of his pants,” he said. “Is my Walther in your purse?”

She dug it out and handed it to him. “I don’t think anybody could still be here, not with Daisy sitting calmly in the hall. Not unless our intruder is dead.”

“He did some bleeding,” Stone said, handing her the spattered piece of cloth. “I just want to be sure.” He left her in the hall with Daisy, looked around, and came back, handing Holly the gun. “All clear.”

“Who do you think belongs to this?” Holly asked, holding up the fabric.

“One of the men outside my house in New York was wearing blue coveralls,” Stone said, fingering the cloth. “This is the same sort of utilitarian fabric.”

“I don’t like this,” Holly said.