Estella Rosewater got up from her chair and came around the desk to greet him. She was a slim, attractive woman in her early sixties, with blonde hair fading to white and clear gray-blue eyes. She wore a powder-blue knit suit, a white silk blouse, a simple strand of pearls, and medium heels.

David suspected that during business hours, this woman always dressed for work, even if she worked from home, and that during her leisure time, she was nonetheless so well put together that she could have been photographed for a style magazine. Soft-spoken, composed, with a firm handshake, she seemed a paragon of self-discipline.

She sat forward in an armchair, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap, and he sat in an identical chair, facing her across a small table on which stood a crystal bowl filled with peach-colored roses.

Although David was neither physically awkward nor carelessly dressed, he felt raw-boned and somehow untidy in her presence.

“You and your husband were friends with Patrick Corley.”

“Initially, we were business partners, but the business went so well that friendship inevitably grew from it.”

“Your husband was an eye surgeon?”

“Haskell was an excellent eye surgeon. He developed numerous surgical techniques and devices that saved the sight of countless people.”

Her pride in her late husband brought fresh color to her face, and she sat up even straighter in her chair.

“He was a good man, Mr. Thorne, kind and generous and patient. But although Haskell could make money, he couldn’t grow it or even keep much of it. When we married, he trusted me to put his earnings to work, and as it turned out, I have a modest talent for money management. We invested in various things, including financing six custom homes built by Pat Corley, two here in Santa Barbara and four next door in Montecito. Pat had built, I believe, eighteen others before we began working together.”

“And Corley was an honest, reliable partner.”

“More than that. He was a caring, responsible craftsman. Many general contractors, building custom homes on spec, they cut corners where the cutting is difficult to see, just to line their pockets with a few thousand more. Pat never cut corners and still achieved a handsome profit. We were proud of the homes we built together.”

David said, “I believe his wife was an artist.”

“Nanette worked in stained glass, in all kinds of art glass. More Tiffany inspired than either modern or churchy. Nan was very talented and a good friend.” She rose, went to a sideboard on which were arranged a dozen or more photographs in decorative frames, and returned with a photo of Patrick and Nanette Corley, which she gave to David before settling in her chair once more. “Nanette worked on construction sites beside Pat, framing in her own windows, hanging her wonderful art-glass chandeliers.”

The woman in the photo had an appealing elfin face and a mop of shaggy auburn hair. David said, “She died eleven years ago.”