"The curse?"

"Cupid's Curse."

"Why do I feel like I don't want to know?"

"Because you don't."

"But you're going to tell me."

"It's my sisterly duty. Now go. It takes forever to get through security."

With a wave he was gone. And I was left wondering how I was going to get him and my father to compromise where Valentine, Inc., was concerned. Luckily I had a week to figure it out.

Cohasset was one of those gorgeous New England towns used in the movies-literally. Several feature films had been shot here. There's a lot to love. Stunning ocean views, a quaint village with charming shops, harbor, and town green.

Not the kind of place where one disappears without a trace.

Snowflakes fell lazily as Sean turned onto Atlantic Avenue, one of the most picturesque streets in Massachusetts, known for its magnificent oceanfront mansions. In the summer, sightseers clogged the tree-lined road for glimpses of fame and fortune. This area used to be the vacation spot of Boston's rich and famous, but over the years more people came, stayed, lived. My grandparents settled here in the forties. My mother lived a couple miles away, on Jerusalem Road, another tourist hot spot.

Even though I'd lived here all my life, I never took it for granted. This area was special. Magical. It pained to think something horrible could have happened to Mac here.

I checked my cell phone again. I was expecting a return call from Aiden Holliday. Although Cohasset wasn't in his jurisdiction, as my connection with the Massachusetts State Police he would be allowed access to the case because of my involvement. I hoped the Cohasset PD or the state police had information that hadn't been released to the public. Information that might help Sean and me find Mac.

Sean drove past the driveway to Aerie, Dovie's manor house, and turned into a sleek paved driveway a mile down the road. A wrought-iron gate in a geometric pattern blocked the drive even though Mac's daughter, Jemima Hayes, was expecting us.

Sean lowered his window, pressed the intercom for the main house, which couldn't be seen from the road.

A bored voice female said, "Yes?"

"Sean Donahue and Lucy Valentine. We have an appointment."

The gate slowly swung open.

"Friendly," Sean said, sliding me a glance and a wry smile.

The driveway snaked uphill through dense woods, filled with evergreens, low-lying shrubs and roots, and bare branches of deciduous trees. The lane was lined on each side with a low granite wall inset with small, round lights. The woods gave way to an expanse of lawn, where the brown tips of dormant grass were sticking through the pristine white of accumulating snow.

The driveway widened, and the granite gradually tapered into a decorative garden border, lining the length of extensive beds, snowy now but probably glorious in summertime.

The house sat proudly, nakedly, at the edge of the bluff. The home stood out as a modern masterpiece with its glass walls, straight lines, and boxy design. It was a rarity among the classic New England architecture of its neighbors. The whole place had been remodeled five years ago after the original manor had burned down-an electrical fire that had killed Mac's wife, Betty.

The Gladstones had come from money, old money, but Mac had also made a fortune as a children's book illustrator and print artist. Some of his work had been shown in the New Yorker and Life. Dozens of museums proudly displayed original pieces from early in his career.

Gusts laced with February chill blew off the water. I drew up the collar of my coat, but snowflakes stung my cheeks like little pinpricks. Sean rang the bell and a loud dong went off inside the house.

Through the tinted glass front door, I saw a blurry blob slide across the floor, right itself, then charge toward us. Barking echoed. I held my breath, afraid the dog was going to launch at us straight through the glass, but he slowed and bounced like a giant hyperactive rabbit, waiting impatiently for someone to let us in.

"Rufus, I presume," I said through chattering teeth.

A silhouette appeared in the distance. "Rufus! Down! Down!"

The va-va-va-voom figure edged the dog aside with the swing of a curvaceous hip as she opened the door. Rufus surged forward. She grabbed hold of his collar, yanked him back. "Damn it, down!"

A colorful pink and black skull bandanna came loose from Rufus's neck and fluttered to the ground. The dog barked happily.

"Esme! Esme! Come get the dog." After a second, she muttered something about good help, then dragged the dog toward the stairs. "Christa, honey!"

"Jemima Hayes?" I asked.

"Unfortunately."

Okay, then.

She was tiny, maybe five feet tall, and built like a mini Mae West, with curves in all the right places. Thick red hair cascaded past her bare shoulders. Enormous breasts bulged from a skintight tube top. The bare skin of her tiny waist showed above the Chanel belt holding up a pair of flared designer jeans that sat snug on her waist. Barbed-wire tattoos circled muscled biceps. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted a vibrant pink and dotted with tiny rhinestones.

On one hand, she looked like a groupie from a bad eighties hair band, yet on the other, culture in her voice hinted at a prep-school upbringing. Her makeup was extremely well done. No over-the-top black eyeliner and fake lashes, but a subtle violet smudge of eyeliner that picked up purple flecking in her brown eyes.

Jemima turned toward the marble steps leading to the second floor and shouted, "Christa!"

Maybe Mac had run away.

If so, I wouldn't blame him a bit, not if this kind of yelling was common around here.

Rufus was nuzzling Sean's hand. The retriever's eyes were bright, happy, his golden coat healthy and shiny. Someone was obviously taking care of him.

A thin, pale teen appeared at the top of the steps, an iPod in one hand, a cell phone in the other. Shiny straight auburn hair hung down, covering her face like a shield.

Jemima's tone softened, and I immediately liked her a little better. Not much, but a little. "Christa, honey, please, please, please come get this dog. Bring him downstairs." Christa slowly came down the steps and Rufus rushed over to her.

Jemima stooped and picked up the bandanna. She waved it at the girl, then set it on the newel post with a smile. "Pink again? You're going to give the mutt a complex." To Sean and me, Jemima said, "Come on back to the kitchen."

I glanced over my shoulder in time to see the girl retie the bandanna around Rufus's neck.

Jemima looked over her shoulder. "That dog is such a nuisance. All jumpy and slobbery and needy. I'm not a dog person. Never was, never will be. Sit, sit," she insisted, pointing to two counter stools at the kitchen island. Sleek stainless-steel counters gleamed in the waning sunlight. Floor-to-ceiling windows were dotted with salty sea mist, but the view of the ocean beyond was still breathtaking. The water was choppy today, angry and wild. "Dad wanted a dog after Mom died and who could argue with that? But I can't take much more."

A roux simmered on the gas stove top on the other side of the island. Jemima stuck a finger into the sauce, pulled it out, and licked it clean. She added a pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, and a bit of thyme. Picking up a small paring knife, she began expertly dicing cloves of garlic into tiny, perfect bits.

"Much more of what?" Sean asked, holding out my stool for me. It looked like a giant stainless-steel Frito on a stick. It was probably designer, had probably cost a fortune, and was probably the ugliest piece of furniture I'd ever laid eyes on.

"That dog," she said, waving the knife. "He has to go. I hate to say it, I really do, but he has to go."

"You can't get rid of him. What if Mac comes home?"

She moved on from the garlic and started taking mushrooms out of a plastic grocer's bag. Gingerly she placed each on the counter.

In the silence, I picked up on the soft strains of classical music coming from a speaker nearly hidden in the ceiling. Something staccato, feisty, and rebellious.

Jemima Hayes looked me straight in the eyes. The dying sunlight softened the angles of her face. I was surprised to notice how pretty she was. She dampened a cloth, set about wiping down the mushrooms. "If he comes back."

"About that," Sean said. "You know Dovie Valentine has hired me to look into Mac's disappearance."

"Good luck to you. If he was coming back, he'd be back by now. He'd never leave the mutt behind. Or Christa, either. They were close, those two."

Nothing in Jemima's voice hinted at any pain in relation to what she had silently implied. That Mac hadn't been close to her. But I could sense it like an electric undercurrent, ready to shock when least expected.

Pulling a small notebook out of his leather coat, Sean said, "When did you realize Mac was missing?"

She heaved a sigh that sent her breasts near to spilling out of her spandex top. "You're really going to make me do this again?"

"It might help find Mac," I said.

"Mom?"

I jumped as Christa came into the kitchen-I hadn't heard her.

"Are they looking for Granddad?"

Rufus barked from somewhere downstairs. Jemima's lips pressed together. "I swear to God. That dog is going to be the death of me. Please go quiet him down, take him for a walk. Something," Jemima begged.

"But-"

"Christa," Jemima said with more patience than I had given her credit for. "We've been through this."

"But..."

I spotted moisture in Jemima's eyes before she looked away. "Please go take care of Rufus. Dinner's almost ready. We'll talk about it then."

The teen turned and walked out.

"That girl could sneak up on a flea." Jemima turned off the flame beneath the roux. "Mac took Rufus for a walk on January third. The stupid dog came back; Mac didn't. Knew something was wrong right off the bat. Esme and I drove around and around. Searched culverts, drop-offs, beaches, everything. There was no trace of him. He was just," she drew in a breath, "gone."

It was mid-February now, and there hadn't been any sign of him since.

"What was he wearing?" Sean asked.

"Jeans, sneakers, white gym socks, hideous knit sweater, corduroy coat, gloves."

"Were any of those items gifts?" I asked.

Jemima popped the top off a mushroom. "Not that I know of. Most of it was replacement clothes." She bit her bottom lip.

"After the fire?" I asked.

Drawing her shoulders back, she ripped the head off another mushroom. "That's right." Her breath hitched. "We moved in with Mac right after the house was rebuilt. Dad needed someone to look after him in those early days. The dog was actually my idea, if you can believe it." She ruthlessly tore off another mushroom cap. "I have to admit Mac was a lot happier after Rufus." She shook her head, sending a shock wave through her red hair. "That's why I know he's not coming back. That dog ... he was Mac's world."

A housekeeper came in carrying a small stack of dish towels.

"Thank you, Esme," Jemima said, taking one from the top.

"Did he have anything else with him?" I asked. "Like glasses or an iPod or a cell phone?"

"No. Mac's vision is just fine, and he doesn't believe in modern technology."

I raised an eyebrow, looked around at the state-of-the-art kitchen with its luxury appliances, wine cooler, and high-tech toys.

Jemima smiled. "Mac gave me carte blanche when we rebuilt. Said I might as well design the new place since it would be mine one day. It's glorious, isn't it? My dream house."

"It's something," I said. Grudgingly I had to admit the place was a showpiece. It didn't fit the neighborhood, but that didn't mean it wasn't amazing.

Sean tapped on his notebook with the tip of his pen. "Did Mac have any enemies?"

"Mac only had a handful of close friends. Liked to be by himself most of the time. Can't imagine anyone would want to do him any harm."

"Any chance he just walked away?" I asked.

"I just can't see that happening."

I said, "What about suicide?"

Her eyes filled with such sadness it tugged at my heart. She shrugged. "Are we almost done?"

"Any chance we can look around?" Sean asked. "Does Mac have a den or an office?"

Her gaze narrowed. "Mac's space is downstairs. No one has touched anything down there since he's been gone. You have five minutes. Then you need to leave."

6.

Opening the door to the lower level was like falling down Alice's rabbit hole.

This was Mac's domain and it showed the minute we took the first step down. There was nothing contemporary down here; instead there were sturdy, gleaming oak steps, lined with a carpet runner.

The stairs curved, leading down into a cozy masculine one-bedroom apartment, scented with pipe tobacco that had me immediately thinking of my Grandpa Henry. Instantly I was a little girl again, curled up with him in his favorite chair while he puffed on his pipe and read me storybooks of faraway lands and handsome princes. A feeling of warmth and love washed over me, and the moisture in my eyes took me by surprise.

Rufus charged toward us, jumping. He dropped a squeaky rubber chicken at Sean's feet.

"Chicken toss is his favorite game," Christa said. She was tucked into a hunter green leather armchair. She pulled an iPod bud from her ear and stretched out her long legs. I guessed her to be sixteen or seventeen-more woman than little girl.

Sean picked up the chicken and tossed it across the room. Rufus thundered after it, tail slashing.