Weaving through the crowd, I reached Kris Ann with her drink as she listened to Susie Threadgill talk avidly about Jason: “And after they threw him out of Phillips for beating some boy half to death, he came home and killed the neighbor’s dog with a pistol, just from meanness. Henry had to beg them not to prosecute. He was so ashamed.”

Clayton Kell edged over. “Adam, I’m sure sorry about this morning. You look ready to kill.”

He said it straight out, not prying, the irony unintended. The usual Clayton, dry-witted and amiably lazy, saw both the world and his role in it as a little bit silly. It was probably a perspective worth having: Clayton puttered around Henry’s bank like a large troll who had gone to prep school, getting by on charm. His secret was that, when it mattered, he was better than that. I relaxed for a moment. “Thanks, Clayt.” I looked around. “Why all the cops and reporters?”

Clayton gave me a thin smile. “The police are here because some nervous people want protection from a madman they’re afraid knows them already. The reporters are pretending to cover the party so they can snoop. I just hope they don’t use Lydia’s murder to dog Henry. He’s been bad enough.”

“How so?”

“You haven’t noticed?”

“Not particularly. I haven’t seen him that much. He’s been lying kind of low.”

“Well, you all are our counsel—you’ve seen how he usually is down there, kind of sleepwalking through business hours like his real life is happening somewhere else. But at least he’s always pretty much the same. The last two months, though, he’s been almost manic-depressive: hiding in his office with the door shut and then bursting out to insist on something foolish. There was one loan in particular, a high-risk deal with this white-shoe developer out of New Orleans where we ended up under-collateralized and in trouble with the Feds. I mean, Henry’s no businessman, but he could usually spot quality.”

“What do you make of it?”

He gave a shrug of vast helplessness. “You know Henry. Very private. But I figure it’s the boy, poor bastard. Henry, that is.” He sipped his drink, asking pointedly, “How goes it with Roland?”

“Same, same. He looks on me as the son he never had.”