She had this nagging sense that she was missing something, that some key piece of information was eluding her, floating just beyond her grasp. Intuition told her it was connected to Camilla. But Camilla-related information was hard to come by in the circles she traveled in. Camilla was the word not spoken in the Flood-Flaherty household. And Camilla was the dark alley off Memory Lane that Tommy preferred to creep past, head down. Alice sensed she needed to come at the problem from a different angle. Hence, the elder Mrs. Flood.

“One hour,” Charlie said. “That’s all the time I’m giving you to indulge your senior citizen fetish. Use it wisely.”

The door swung open. The woman behind it, Mrs. Flood, was a pretty older lady, looked closer to seventy than the eighty Alice knew her to be, fashionably dressed in a crisp white shirt and linen slacks, hair twisted into a chignon. She was tall and had the same high cheekbones as her son, the same thick gray hair and piercing gunmetal-blue eyes. More pierced than piercing, though, when she saw Alice and Charlie standing there. For a second, Alice thought she was going to faint, reached out to catch her.

“Mrs. Flood, are you okay?” Mrs. Flood’s arm in her hand was so thin, like a twig. She was far more fragile than she looked, Alice realized, her height and bone structure and steely coloring deceptive.

“Yes, dear,” she said, struggling to regain her composure, obviously embarrassed at this display of weakness. “I’m fine. You must be Alice.”

Alice confirmed with a nod.

Mrs. Flood kept her gaze on Alice, but addressed Charlie, as if she were afraid she’d lose her balance again if she moved even her eyes: “That would make you Charlie?”

“It would,” Charlie said. “Nice to meet you.”

“I was waiting for the bell to ring. I must’ve stood up too quickly and . . .” shaking her head, like she was trying to shake off the wooziness. “Come in, girls, come in.”

Charlie raised her eyebrows at Alice before following Mrs. Flood inside.

She led them into a dining room that was bright and high-ceilinged, elegant-looking without being fussy-looking. The table was set beautifully, fresh flowers in a tall, oblong vase, hand-painted Italian plates, goblety-type glasses that were probably made of crystal or something even fancier. Mrs. Flood said she’d be right back with lunch, waved off Alice and Charlie’s offers of help.

Once she disappeared through the door, Charlie turned to Alice and said, “Jesus, I hope she doesn’t have a heart attack in there. I call dibs on not doing mouth-to-mouth.”