“Yes. We raise exotic cattle—Highland cattle. And of course we have a few horses—pure Spanish Andalusians—and some interesting types of chickens.”

Even the animals on her ranch had designer labels.

She was dressed to go riding in tan jodhpurs and tall boots, and a butter-soft suede jacket that probably would have cost Mendez two weeks’ pay. A beautifully patterned silk scarf was wound around her throat into an elaborate cravat inside the open collar of her crisp white blouse. She wore kid gloves so thin and fine she didn’t bother taking them off.

The boots didn’t look like they had ever seen the inside of a barn or stepped into a stirrup.

“Do you know anyone in Lompoc, Mrs. Bordain?” he asked.

“No.”

Lompoc didn’t have the right zip code for the Bordains, who had a mansion in posh Montecito on the coast adjacent to Santa Barbara, and a condo on the Wilshire Corridor in Los Angeles.

“The box was postmarked Lompoc.”

A city roughly the same size as Oak Knoll, Lompoc was north and west of Santa Barbara. Its biggest claim to fame in Mendez’s book was the federal penitentiary.

“You’ll get fingerprints from the box, won’t you?” Bordain asked.

“If we’re lucky,” he said. “Mrs. Bordain, do you have any idea why the killer would send that box to you?”

“No! My God! Of course not! I don’t understand any of this! Why would anyone kill Marissa? She was like a daughter to me. And why send that—that thing to me?”

“Maybe that is why,” Mendez said. “She was like a daughter to you. Could someone have been jealous of her or angry that you supported her?”

“I suppose so,” she said. “I get a lot of requests from people who want someone to pay their way for something.”

“You get letters?”

“Yes. I have one of Bruce’s secretaries deal with them.”

“We’ll need to see those letters, if possible,” Dixon said. “In case somebody’s holding a grudge.”

The kettle whistled and she jumped as if she’d been shot. Hands shaking, she made her tea with a teabag, and the scent of peppermint filled the air on a cloud of steam. The cup rattled against the saucer as she took it to the kitchen table and sat down.

“This is such a nightmare,” she said. “I’d just gotten back from the meeting about Haley when the mail came. I was already upset. I’m filing the paperwork to become her foster parent. That woman from Child Protective Services is coming tomorrow to see the house. Haley should be with people she knows, people who care about her.

“What must she be thinking?” she said. “She has to be terrified, surrounded by strangers. Has she said anything about what happened?”

“Not so far,” Dixon said. “She was unconscious for some time. She may never remember anything.”