Alice Ranger was as thin as ever, her face made even more severe by layers of foundation that gave her a ghostly appearance. The makeup looked newly applied, as if she were planning on going somewhere. If that were the case, she gave no indication of being in a hurry. On the contrary, she acted welcoming, as if the visit from Martinez and Webster were a social call. A brown knitted pantsuit hung on her bony frame; her feet were bare with toenails painted eggplant purple.

“Come in, come in.” Acting like old friends. “Would you like something to drink?”

Webster shook his head, but Martinez told her that water would be nice. He came from a culture that considered it an insult to refuse hospitality.

Alice regarded him with displeasure. Trying to stand in one spot, she teetered on her feet. “Only water?”

“Water, juice, a Coke…”

“How about a rum-and-Coke?”

“No, thank you.”

“Don’t be shy.”

“Then how about coffee?” Martinez asked.

“Coffee?” She was incredulous. “It’s well into the martini hour, Detective.”

“Thank you, but I’d still like coffee. How about making up a pot?”

“A whole pot?”

“Yeah. Tom’ll take a cup. And you’ll join us, of course.”

Alice made a face. “You want me to drink coffee?”

“Yeah. Go make up a pot, Mrs. Ranger.”

“All right.” It took her a while to focus. “I’ll get you coffee.”

“Thank you.”

“Be right back.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t go away.”

“No, we won’t,” Webster said.

“Hey, you can talk,” Alice sniped.

“Yes, ma’am, I can talk.”

Alice’s smile was loopy. “Be right back.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Finally she left. Martinez gave a quick once-over to the living room, hoping to glean some information about the family from the furnishings. Unfortunately, the decor was a vast snowscape of white carpet holding thick blobs of cream and white furniture. The art that broke up the vanilla walls was drab and shapeless, the coffee and end tables were as empty as the desert plains. No photos, no vases or bowls or plates or displays. No TV or entertainment unit, either. But there was a well-stocked, mirror-backed, granite-topped wet bar that took up half the room.

Webster had followed the arc of Martinez’s eyes, seeing them light on the bar. He whispered, “How much vermouth do you think is in that woman’s liver?”

“That’s between her and God. Our job is to get her sober enough to make sense.”

“It’s going to take more than coffee to do that.”

“Then we’ll have to take our time.”

“How ’bout I peek upstairs on the off-chance that Ruby’s there?” Tom suggested. “Could be the reason why the mother is so soused.”