When I looked up, Diana Alvarez was standing at my door. She wore a snug black turtleneck and a short preppy-looking pleated skirt over black tights. Her low-heeled patent-leather shoes had little brass buckles across the tops that were ever so pert. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a style that magnified her dark brown eyes behind rimless glasses.

She said, “Mind if I sit down?”

“Be my guest.”

As she settled in the chair, she straightened her skirt under her to avoid wrinkling the fabric. Over one shoulder she had a small bag on a thin leather strap. I’m constitutionally incapable of toting anything that small. Hers probably contained her driver’s license, a tube of lipstick, her mad money, one credit card, and her little spiral-bound notebook with a pen stuck through the wire loops. I was hoping she had a tissue tucked in there somewhere for nasal emergencies.

“What’s on your mind?” I anticipated a few follow-up questions about the dig the day before. Maybe she’d apologize for being pushy and deceptive, traits I found attractive in myself but unappealing in her.

“We need to talk about Michael Sutton,” she said.

I went through an automatic sorting process, wondering:

1. How and what she knew about Michael Sutton;

2. Whether she was fishing to confirm my professional relationship with him; and

3. Whether I was still bound by ethical constraints now that our one-day business dealings had come to an end. What, if anything, was I at liberty to disclose?

“Where did that name come from?”

“Cheney Phillips told me he talked to Michael at the station and then referred him to you. I spotted Michael at the dig yesterday, and since you were at the scene as well, I’m assuming he hired you. Is that correct?” Even without her spiral notebook at hand, she was confirming the facts.

“Why not ask him?”

“I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Too bad. I don’t intend to conduct a conversation behind his back so there you have it.”

“We don’t have to behave like antagonists. I’m here to save you a few headaches . . .”

I opened my mouth to interrupt and she held up one hand.

“Just listen to me,” she said. “I didn’t realize what was going on until I saw his MG parked by the side of the road. I’d been sent to cover the story, so I waited like everyone else to see what they’d find. I assumed the police were operating on an anonymous tip and then it dawned on me Michael was involved.”

“That still doesn’t tell me why you’re here.”

She cocked her head and the light glinting off her glasses was like a quick camera flash. “I’m his sister, Dee.”

Ah. Dee, the difficult one. I looked at her closely, seeing for the first time Sutton’s solemn brown eyes staring back at me. “Alvarez is your married name.”