"No, we don't," Libby said. "It's a stretch."

"Yes, it is," Sean admitted. "Anything else?" he asked.

"Joanna mentioned Joyce as well," Bernie said. "She implied that she had a reason for killing Annabel. She said that we should talk to her."

Sean drummed his fingers on the arm of his wheelchair. "And Joyce is who? Refresh my memory."

"She was Annabel's best friend," Libby told him. "She was there at the dinner."

"That's right," Sean said. "Of course, according to Annabel's last speech, everyone at the party had a motive for killing her."

"That's what makes this so tough," Libby observed.

"Correction," Sean told her. "That's what makes this so interesting."

"If Annabel didn't have a heart condition she might have survived," Bernie observed.

"How many people knew she had a heart condition?" Sean asked.

"Everyone at that party knew," Bernie said.

Sean thought over what Bernie said for a moment. He'd just come up with his to-do list when the house phone rang. Libby sprang up to answer it. She came back a couple of moments later with a puzzled expression on her face.

Chapter 16.

"Who was it?" Bernie asked when Libby sat down at the table again.

"That was Richard Colbert and he wants me to meet him at his house at two o'clock this afternoon."

Bernie reached over, grabbed a piece of raisin toast, and took a bite. "You're kidding."

"Nope."

"That's interesting," Sean said.

"Isn't it, though? Richard not being one of our biggest fans," Bernie replied before turning to her sister. "Libby, he asked for you specifically?"

"Yes," Libby told her. "He did. And I said I'd be there. Maybe he wants to apologize to us."

Bernie barely managed to keep from rolling her eyes. "I wouldn't count on that if I were you." She finished her toast. "On the other hand, it does offer an opportunity...." Her voice trailed off and she started to smile.

"Don't even think about it," Libby warned, catching sight of Bernie's expression. "Because it's not going to happen."

Bernie widened her eyes. "Think about what?"

"About going through the house while I talk to Richard."

"Such a thing would never enter my mind." Bernie held up her hand. "I swear."

"Do you sister swear?" Libby demanded.

"That's absurd," Bernie said, trying to summon up indignation and failing.

Libby folded her arms across her chest and leaned back. "That's what I thought."

"At least she has the good grace to blush," Sean said to Libby.

"You don't think it's a good idea?" Bernie asked him.

"On the contrary, I think it's an excellent idea as long as everyone is out of the house. This is going to be the only time, as far as I can see, that you're going to get to look around there."

"I'm pretty sure we're just talking about Joanna being there," Bernie said.

"We don't know that for sure," Libby said. "There could be lots of people working there. Maybe we should find out first."

"We don't have time to do that," Bernie said.

Libby bit her lip. "All the more reason not to do this. Besides, the house is huge."

"I'll go through as much as I can," Bernie said. "I realize it's not ideal, but I think we have to take advantage of this opportunity. What do you think, Dad?"

"If we can get Joanna out of the house, I think we should go for it," Sean said. "If Bernie meets anyone, she can always say she came in to use the bathroom and got lost."

"I still don't like it," Libby said.

"It'll be fine," Sean said. "If I thought it was dangerous, I would never put you and Bernie at risk. You know that."

"How are you going to get Joanna out of the way?" Libby asked. She hoped that would provide the metaphorical fly in the ointment. But it didn't.

"Listen and learn," Sean said. He turned to Bernie. "Brandon's pretty good at imitating voices, isn't he?" he asked.

"Yes, he is. But he's asleep."

"Then wake him up."

Richard Colbert seemed much friendlier this time around, Libby decided when he met her at the door of his McMansion. Although this place wasn't even a McMansion. It was a McMansion on steroids. She looked at the way Richard was dressed-tweed sports jacket, immaculately pressed blue and white windowpane shirt open at the neck, tan corduroy pants, chestnut brown leather loafers that gleamed; in other words, the epitome of the country squire as filtered through American designers-and wished she'd dressed in something other than her old jeans, flannel shirt, and hiking boots. But what could you do?

Okay. She could have done something. She could have worn her black slacks and black sweater, the way Bernie had suggested. But she hadn't wanted to be here in the first place-the whole thing felt wrong-so she'd decided she'd be d.a.m.ned if she was going to take the time to change her clothes. That would just have been adding insult to injury. She'd told her sister that and Bernie had just shaken her head and walked away. Maybe Bernie was right about dressing to fit a part, Libby decided as Richard smiled and shook her hand. But it was too late now.

"Thanks for coming," he said as he took her old ski parka and hung it in the hall closet next to an expensive-looking fur coat.

Bernie would know what kind of fur it was, Libby thought as Richard led her down the hall. But since her sister was otherwise engaged in exploring the upstairs areas of Richard Colbert's mansion, she couldn't ask her. Libby felt a stab of resentment at Bernie for making her worry this way. Then she put the emotion away and concentrated on the matter at hand.

One thing was for sure, she decided as she followed Richard down the hall: He didn't look like a man prostrate with grief. In fact, he looked pretty relaxed and happy. As if a great weight had been lifted off him. Interesting, as her dad would say. She and Richard walked past the solarium and turned to the left.

"This is the guest wing," Richard explained as they pa.s.sed the exercise room, the sauna, and a room with a large loom in it. "Well, here we are," Richard said, pausing at the doorway in front of him. "I thought we'd have our little chat in the library."

"It's amazing," Libby said as she caught up with him.

"It's rather showy if you ask me," Richard said. He gestured at the floor-to-ceiling shelves of leather-bound books, the large Oriental rugs, the leather sofa and armchairs, the elaborately carved old oak desk. "Annabel bought the whole room lock, stock, and barrel from an estate on Rhode Island and had it transported here one carefully wrapped piece at a time."

"That must have been quite a job," Libby said.

"You have no idea." Richard pointed at the two stained gla.s.s windows over on the far wall. "Tiffany gla.s.s. Annabel had to have them. Had to. Was going to die if she didn't. I can't tell you how much they cost or what a pain they were to transport here. I had to get a special crew from the Metropolitan Museum down in New York City up to Rhode Island to wrap them for shipping.

"That was the only way I could get them insured. Then, of course, when they got here they didn't fit the original openings. We had to knock some of the wall down to make a s.p.a.ce for them." Richard shook his head at the memory. "But whatever Annabel wanted that's what Annabel got."

"Well, not quite everything," Libby said, thinking of the Malathion.

Richard corrected himself. "Almost everything." He gestured for Libby to sit in one of the leather armchairs, which she did. He took the one across from her.

"So where is everyone?" she asked when she'd gotten herself settled, no easy task in a chair deep enough for a pro wrestler to get lost in. She just wanted to make sure there were no surprises.

Richard shrugged. "Joanna had to go out on an errand and the cleaning crew comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"Cleaning crew?" Libby repeated.

Good grief. That's what had been bothering her. Richard had mentioned something about a cleaning crew coming in. How could she have forgotten? She closed her eyes for a second. She could hear her dad now. The plan is only as good as the information it's based on. But, she reminded herself, she had to focus on the positive. What did Brandon always say? No harm, no foul? Fortunately, this time luck was on their side.

And Joanna was definitely down in the city, thanks to Brandon pretending that he had information about Rick's finances and asking her to meet him down in a little Italian restaurant in Staten Island-a trip that would take Joanna at least two hours to make.

"Where's Trudy?" Libby asked. She'd expected the little dog to be at Richard's feet.

Richard sat back in his chair and rested his right ankle on his left knee. A man in control of his world, Libby couldn't help thinking.

"She's in the kitchen," he replied. "Which is where she belongs. I don't want her tracking dirt over the rugs. They're quite expensive."

"Doesn't she mind?" Libby asked, thinking back to the birthday party Annabel had thrown for her. "She was the princess of the house."

"Not anymore," Richard snapped. "My wife made that dog into a child. I treat her like a dog. She stays in her crate and eats dog food. It's as simple as that."

Suddenly Libby felt very sorry for Trudy. She was thinking about how hard it had to be for her: first she lost her mother, so to speak, and then she was demoted to living in the kitchen like a scullery maid. Just like Cinderella, Libby couldn't help thinking when Richard unfolded his legs, leaned forward, and folded his hands together.

"Thanks for coming," he said in a voice dripping with sincerity. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. I'm sorry if I treated you and your sister rudely the other day, but I've been under a lot of stress lately. A lot of stress," he repeated in case Libby hadn't gotten it the first time.

Libby made a noncommittal sound.

He leaned forward a little bit more. "And I realize that what happened at the dinner party must have been very stressful to you and your sister as well."

"And for Annabel," Libby added. "Especially for Annabel."

"Oh, definitely. Without a doubt," Richard said hurriedly. "It must have been a little bit terrifying for you as well," Richard continued. "Not to mention confusing."

Libby wondered uncharitably how many more adjectives he'd find to apply to the situation. Maybe he'd consulted a thesaurus before she'd come.

"Yes," he said into the ensuing silence. "I can see where it would be a very confusing situation for both of you."

Confusing was not a word Libby would have chosen for what had happened.

"I don't think the sequence of events is confusing at all," Libby told him. "I thought it was extremely clear-cut. Annabel told everyone how much she hated them, she drank the wine, and she keeled over. Punto finito. Nothing very confusing about that."

Richard ignored Libby's clarification and went on.

"And agitating."

"You already said that," Libby told him before she remembered she was supposed to keep him talking for as long as possible so Bernie could go through the upstairs rooms. It was just that she was finding him so irritating that she just wanted him to get to the point and be done with it. Why did women find this man so attractive? It was a mystery to her.

A scowl flitted over Richard Colbert's face and then subsided. "I did?"

"Different word, same sentiment."

"I'm sorry if I'm rambling on here." Richard put his hand to his heart. "It's just that I feel guilty about all that you and your sister had to go through and I'm sure that Annabel, if she'd been in her right mind, would have felt guilty about the promise she elicited from you."

"You think so?" Libby asked, wondering where this conversation was leading.

Richard nodded emphatically. "Without a doubt. What a terrible burden to put on someone."

Actually her dad was enjoying working on the case. He loved puzzles like this. "Beats the crossword any day," he'd said. But Libby was sure this was not what Richard wanted to hear.

"It is," Libby said, seeking to draw Richard out.

She snuck a peek at her watch. She'd been here for ten minutes, but it felt like an hour.

Richard paused to regard the shine on his shoes for a moment. He strongly believed that you could tell a man's worth by the shoes on his feet and the watch on his wrist. He'd come close to losing both-after all, you can't afford custom-made shoes or a Philip Patek if you have no money-but fortunately, through no action on his part, the crisis had been averted.

He smiled and went on talking to Libby. "The police have said that what happened to poor Annabel was an accident, thereby rendering what she asked you and your sister to do null and void, to steal a legal phrase." He looked at Libby. She didn't say anything. "You do know that she was being treated for some...some psychological issues, don't you?"

Libby sat up straighter. "Are you suggesting that she put flea spray and Malathion in the wine herself?"

"I didn't say that," Richard replied.

"You implied it."

"No. I didn't. You did. However, since you raised that specter I will say that I wouldn't put anything past her, if doing it made her the center of attention."

"Even if she wasn't there to enjoy it?"

"She believed in the afterlife."

Libby wasn't prepared for that one. "I see," she said after a moment had gone by. "And here I thought she did it because it improved the wine's taste."