“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I did a job for a woman named Hallie Bettancourt, who said she met you in passing—”

“You’ve said that already and I’m still not following. I’m pregnant with twins. Enormous. We’re talking the size of a whale. Seven months. Actually, it’s closer to eight. I don’t drink. I don’t go out, and the only people I talk to are under thirty-six inches tall. Except Neil, of course. I hope I don’t sound bitter or cross.”

“A tiny bit cross,” I said. “Not to argue the point, but I only took the job because she mentioned you by name. Otherwise, I might have turned her down.” I was fibbing of course. I’d been delighted to be gainfully employed.

“What’s her name again?”

“Bettancourt. First name Hallie. Her husband is Geoffrey, last name unknown. This is one of those modern marriages where everybody hangs on to what’s his or hers. They live on the old Clipper estate. Half the year, at any rate. The rest of the time, they’re in Malibu or traveling the world. Tough life.”

“Uh, Kinsey? The Clipper estate’s empty and has been for years. No one’s lived in that house since the old lady died back in 1963.”

“Bullshit. I met Hallie up there a week ago.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No.”

“Yes, Vera.” Slowly, as though to a half-wit, I said, “Here’s how it went, and I will swear to this. She called and set up a meeting to discuss a personal matter. On your say-so, please note. I drove up to the house. We had wine on the deck looking out over the city while she told me a long sad tale about the baby she gave up for adoption thirty-two years ago.”

“Did you find him?”

“Yes, I did. He’s a safecracker-turned-bank-robber just out of prison, and I’ve already sent her the information she asked for.”

“She set you up. She must have talked a good game.”

“I don’t see how she could have been bullshitting. She told me all kinds of things about the house.”

“For instance, what?”

“For instance, her father’s the famous architect who tore down the original Georgian mansion and built the contemporary structure that’s up there now.”

“Her father?”

“Halston Bettancourt. At least I think that’s his name.”

“Wrong again. Her name was Ingrid Merchant. She was a San Francisco architect who was all the rage in the 1930s.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. I did hear the note of uncertainty that had crept into my voice. “Are you sure about that?”

With exaggerated patience, she said, “I know I’m hormonal. I know my IQ’s dropped a good twenty points, but I’m still the reigning queen of local real estate. That’s what I do for jollies when I’m not giving birth.”

“I remember that. You scour the Sunday papers and go to all the open houses. Your knowledge is encyclopedic.”

“That’s right, which is how I know about the Clipper estate. It’s a relic. A white elephant. It’s been on the market so long, it’s a joke. The foundation’s cracked and the wooden joists are riddled with termites. The only thing holding it together is the selling agent’s high hopes. Hallie Bettancourt set you up.”