“Bummer.” She took a sip of her martini, holding the glass by the rim. Her nails looked great and I checked mine by way of comparison. With me, she’d used a nail buffer instead of polish, but my nails still had a high shine, as though she’d coated them with clear polish. I remembered her remark about my slender fingers and arranged them on the table in what I hoped was an artful pose.

She moved a cocktail napkin closer and set the stemmed glass in the center with care. I wondered if she already had a buzz on. “Ethan says you’re a private detective.”

“This is true.”

She speared the top of an olive with a long red nail and held it up like a lollipop. “So what’s it take to get a job like that?” She closed her lips around the olive and chewed.

“Long apprenticeship. You work for a licensed PI until you’ve put in the hours you need.”

“Which is how many?”

“Six thousand. If you work a forty-hour week, fifty weeks a year, you’re talking three years.”

“Bet you need a college degree.”

“I don’t have one. I attended a couple of semesters of community college, but I didn’t graduate.”

“I never went at all. I’m the baby in the family. By the time it was my turn, Daddy was in prison and the money was gone.”

“What money?”

“From the house. Mom sold it when she married Gilbert and moved into his. They’ve built a new one. Three thousand square feet and a three-car garage. Looks just like Tara, from Gone With the Wind.”

I said, “What about Ethan? Did he go to college?”

“Nah. He had the chance, but he was busy with his career. You know what I got? A big fat zero. I mean, I get that Daddy left us nothing, but isn’t there some way you could borrow against the estate? I’d pay you back for sure.”

“At this point, the money isn’t mine.”

“At least Ellen has a husband,” she said, apropos of nothing.

“Does she have kids?”

Anna held up three fingers. “Same as my brother,” she said. “Remember that English writer, Virginia Somebody?” She snapped her fingers. “Woolf.”

“I’ve heard of her, but I’ve never read her work.”

“I was in this book club for a couple months? We read a novel by her about a day in the life of this lady who gives a party. Mrs. Dalloway’s the title of it. Like who gives a shit. Anyway, she committed suicide—the writer, not the hostess—and you know how she offed herself?”

“No clue,” I said, wondering where she was going with this.