At the door the landlady asked me how big the inheritance was. I winked and said, "It's confidential. I'm sure you understand."

Leah Goldin—née Benowitz—was absolutely charmed to learn of my profession.

"A detective? Like Philip Marlowe?"

My bewilderment must have shown, because she explained, "From the movie The Big Sleep with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. Don't tell me you haven't seen it."

I confessed that I hadn't.

"Oh," Leah said, laying a hand on my arm, "you definitely should. Lauren Bacall is so beautiful, and the two of them together on the screen—it's pure magic." She looked me up and down. "You don't look like Humphrey Bogart." It was unclear whether she meant this as a compliment or a criticism, so I said nothing. "People have told me I could be in the movies. What do you think?"

She still had not invited me in. I was standing on the third-floor landing; she was still holding the front door to her apartment with her left hand. Now she let go of the door to strike a pose. She planted her left hand on her hip, the right she bunched to a fist, except for an extended index finger, the tip of which she'd placed on the underside of her chin. Tilting her head slightly to the back and left, she cocked her right hip. Finally, she parted and puffed out her lips, as if about to give a kiss, while her eyes narrowed in a feeble attempt at sultriness. All in all, it was a weird combination of gestures and affectations, none of which looked natural or appealing, all of which I assumed she'd copied from movies.

After five seconds of increasingly awkward silence, I realized she was waiting for me to answer. Estimating that a compliment was likelier to get me in the door than the truth, I lied. "You have star quality. No doubt about it."

Leah beamed.

She had a face made for beaming, youthful and smooth and innocent, framed by a shower of brown curls. The smile dug dimples in her plump rosy cheeks and made her light brown eyes sparkle. She had a pert nose and a small pink mouth set in the middle of a round face. She reminded me of pictures of fairies in one of the children's books I had read for my daughters. She was five two and bosomy in a blue housedress with red dots. She was barefoot. Her feet were tiny. If not for the onset of laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, she might have been mistaken for a buxom fifteen-year-old. Her age, I knew from the police report, was thirty.

Truth was, she was pretty, but hardly on the level of movie actresses.

She looked so utterly happy with my lie that I hated having to ruin her mood.

I told her what I was there to talk to her about. Her face fell. She pressed one hand to her cheek and shook her head.