I had met Mary Margaret when she first came over from County Cork, employed by the family to look after Oriana.

"She's not a governess," Oriana had firmly assured me at the age of ten. "She's my companion."

As well as her personal maid, tennis instructor and bodyguard.

All jobs that hadn't used up Mary Margaret's boundless energy. At twenty-nine, she had quickly assumed more important roles around the household by making herself invaluable to the whole family. Within a decade she was running the house with an iron fist-so much so that Oriana's father, industrial titan and a man who had faced down Joe McCarthy, had once asked Mary Margaret's permission to smoke a cigar in his own library.

Now, with the family nearly all gone, she continued to manage the housekeeping at Tall Trees with as much attention to detail as if the place were her own. It was her home, of course. I knew she lived in a spacious third-floor apartment that enjoyed the most picturesque views of the estate. She had served me coffee and raspberry scones in her sitting room when I came calling two weeks after Oriana's memorial service.

"What brings you all the way here?" Mary Margaret asked when she'd taken my coat and urged me into a chair at the table. "Come to ask my opinion of your young man, have you?"

"How do you know I have a young man?"

"It's in the papers, isn't it?" Her green eyes sparkled. "They say you're having an affair with a very naughty boyo. What's his name? Is he Irish, then?"

So the morning's newspapers had included Michael's latest brush with the law. No wonder Reed had kept me in the dark.

"He's Michael," I said. "They call him Michael 'the Mick' because he has blue eyes. His mother was Irish."

"Was she, now? And how's he behaving for you, this half-Irish mongrel?"

I couldn't stop my fingertips from touching the bruise on my face, which she'd noted, of course, despite my careful attempt to cover it. "He's a perfect gentleman," I said. "I've never known anyone kinder."

"But?" she prompted, only half believing me.

"He's been known to get into trouble," I acknowledged. "This time it's not his fault."

Mary Margaret ended her false gaiety. "The newspapers say he's the one who killed that awful woman. Kitty Keough was the one who scorned Miss Oriana for marrying so young, wasn't she?"

"Yes. But Michael had nothing to do with her death. I hope you'll trust me when I say he's innocent."

Agnes brought coffee on a tray-three flowered cups with saucers, a silver coffeepot, sugar and cream in matching china and a clutch of demitasse spoons. But after putting the tray on the table, she quietly picked up the third cup and began to carry it out of the room.

"Agnes, please stay," I called after her. "I'm not revealing any secrets you can't hear."

Mary Margaret smiled and companionably patted the chair next to hers. "You'll have a sit-down, won't you, Aggie? I think Nora's come to pick our brains."

I accepted the cup of coffee she soothingly passed to me. "I need to know whether Kitty Keough was here night before last."

"Here?" Mary Margaret and Agnes exchanged startled glances.

"She was supposed to attend an event in the city, but canceled at the last minute. And her date book indicated she might have had an appointment here. At least that's what I'm guessing."

"She wasn't in the house," Mary Margaret said. "I'd have known that, wouldn't I? We keep the place locked up tight. And when was the last time a soul came calling here?"

"The week before Christmas," Agnes volunteered. Her flat American accent contrasted with Meg's Irish lilt. "Mr. Hemmings had a party for some friends. He entertained in the old gardener's house. A dozen people came. At least, I prepared food for twelve and delivered it at four. Mr. Hemmings insists on punctuality. Cocktails at five, just like his mum. No green olives, only black. Always pour the glasses exactly seven-eighths full. No getting back into the gardener's house until eight the next morning."

So Hemorrhoid was still bizarrely rigid, even at home. "He doesn't live in this house?"

"He does. But he doesn't entertain here. He prefers the privacy of the gardener's house. We don't speculate about what goes on there. It's none of our business, really."

Mary Margaret had pursed her lips and kept silent during Agnes's explanation of the living arrangements.

"Have you met any of Hem's guests in the past?"

"A few. I don't remember Miss Keough being here, though. Hemmings tends to have younger people to his evening parties."

I took a chance. "What about Brinker Holt?"

Mary Margaret frowned. "That name's familiar, isn't it? Is he an unpleasant fellow with a shaved head? Carrying a video camera, perhaps?"

"That would be him."

"He was walking all over the place, filming one evening. I suggested he get himself back to the cottage before the guard dogs found him." Mary Margaret smiled. "Of course, we haven't had guard dogs in years."

I said, "Could Kitty have gone to the gardener's house night before last to meet Hem without your knowing?"

"That's not his schedule. He only entertains in the gardener's house on specific nights, and that wasn't one of them."

"Could she have gotten onto the grounds without your knowing?"

"Normally, we hear cars that arrive by the driveway. I didn't hear anyone arrive, but I suppose someone could have slipped through. The security system runs the perimeter of the grounds," Mary Margaret explained to me. "There used to be an alarm on the gate that beeped when somebody drove through, but that was shut off since Mr. Hemmings requested it about a year ago. The beep annoyed him."

I could see the strain in Mary Margaret's face and knew she had been engaged in a battle of wills with Hemorrhoid. I said, "It must be hard living with a young man like Hemmings."

"It's good to have challenges," Mary Margaret said with diplomacy.

"And we wouldn't dream of leaving," Agnes added staunchly. "Not while Mr. Orlando is still here."

"I don't want anything to happen to Oriana's child." Mary Margaret's eyes misted briefly, but she controlled herself.

I touched her hand. "I'm glad you're looking after him. I saw him night before last, and he seemed . . . well, I know he's had a hard couple of years."

"He's at school most of the time," Mary Margaret said. "We only have him on holidays now. And then Mr. Hemmings wants to be in charge. Has the boy on a strict schedule and an even more strict diet, but we do our best to spoil him a wee bit when he's here."

"Just a bit," Aggie agreed.

"There's a firm schedule when Orlando is here. Breakfast at eight, then a brisk walk, a visit from his tutor, a reading hour-"

"Sounds as if Hem is as regimented with Orlando as he is with himself."

"Oh, yes," Agnes said. "Mr. Hemmings likes things just so. If we deviate from his usual schedule, we'd better have a good excuse. I forgot to deliver Orlando's nine-thirty hot cocoa once, and Mr. Hemmings was so upset I almost called nine-one-one."

"It was worse the night I tried to iron an old copy of TV Guide instead of putting a fresh one by his bed," Mary Margaret said.

"Oh, goodness, yes. What a tantrum!"

"How does Orlando handle the rigidity?"

"He does his best to be good. And we try to ease things a bit."

"So the other night," I said, getting back on track, "you didn't see Kitty?"

"Aggie and I were here in the kitchen until half past eleven, having a glass while we watched that Naked Chef fellow poaching a salmon." She sighed into her coffee cup. "I still love a Guinness."

Agnes admiringly wagged her head. "The Naked Chef surely knows how to make a simple fish into something glorious."

"Mr. Hemmings was out, of course," Mary Margaret added. "He drove Orlando to a fashion show."

"But I saw Gallagher at the fashion show. He picked up Orlando."

"Gallagher went later, to bring the child home so Hemmings could spend the evening with friends. That's his Tuesday schedule."

"Sending Orlando's nanny off," Mary Margaret snapped, rapping her cup into its saucer. "Was that the wisest decision anyone ever made? The boy needs an ally. A young person to be his friend."

"Wasn't Minky his nanny?" I asked. "When we talked last summer, she was still looking after him."

At the mention of Mary Margaret's daughter, the two women exchanged a fond glance.

"Minky would still be working here if Hemmings hadn't enrolled Orlando in that ghastly school. At his age and what with just losing his mum and dad, I ask you, was that the right choice?"

Agnes shook her head. "Minky was wonderful with him, too."

Mary Margaret smiled. "Isn't she the best thing I ever did?"

Agnes slid her hand across the table to join Mary Margaret's, and the two of them looked very proud.

The whole reason Mary Margaret went into service at all had been the birth of her out-of-wedlock child, Melissa. In the years she first worked for Oriana's family, Mary Margaret's baby had been like a doll for us to play with-a perfect little child with a sweet temperament. In later years, we'd spoiled Melissa with candy, taught her to French-braid hair and throw water balloons off the conservatory roof onto guests who lounged around the pool. After Oriana and I went off to college together, Agnes had come along and helped Mary Margaret raise Minky into an intelligent, gracious and empathic young woman. When Orlando was born, his mother had known exactly what nanny could best look after him.

"No child should grow up the way Orlando is," Agnes said. "Mr. Hemmings is so fussy about his clothes and his manners. And don't get me started on the toothbrush ritual! Plus he's isolating the boy from everyone who loves him."

"Giving Orlando only one person to turn to, see?" Mary Margaret said. "And that person is Hemmings, isn't it?"

"Well," said Agnes, shooting a furtive look at Mary Margaret.

The two blushed.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"It's harmless," Agnes assured me.

"And isn't Gallagher an old softie?" Mary Margaret said. "Not a bad influence on a boy, is he? He may not be the perfect companion for Orlando, but he's the best we've got."

"We let Orlando hang around Gallagher in the garage. Keeps the boy active. Takes his mind off his troubles."

"And if Hemorrhoid doesn't know, who's going to tell him?" asked Mary Margaret.

Watching the two women smile, I put a few facts together and made a decision.

"Maybe I'd better go talk to Gallagher."

They put on their parkas and Wellies to accompany me outside, claiming they both needed a breath of fresh air, but I knew they had seen Reed from the alcove window and they wanted to meet him.

I led the way myself, knowing the path to the garage after years of playing on the grounds of the estate with my friend. Even covered with snow, the dips and curves that skirted sweeping beds planted with perennial flowers and ornamental bushes were familiar. We chatted about the small changes that had been made, and Mary Margaret pointed out the new orchard of spindly young fruit trees. Peach preserves had been Oriana's favorite.

At the croquet lawn, we came across Reed standing on the walk. A few yards away, Spike barked and ran circles around Orlando, who stood stiffly, ankle deep in snow and wearing an immaculate parka over a shirt and tie. I couldn't believe my eyes. His uncle made him wear a tie?

As we approached, the boy bent down cautiously to pet Spike. Seizing the opportunity, Spike snatched Orlando's knit cap from his head and took off galumphing as best he could with his plastered hind legs.

"Hey!" Orlando called.

"What kind of animal is that?" Mary Margaret demanded.

"He's a dog, believe it or not," I said. "But I think his species would prefer not to claim him."

"Orlando seems to like him," Agnes observed as the boy plunged after Spike through the snow. The two of them were clumsy and yet bursting with energy.

"And who's this?" Mary Margaret asked as we approached Reed.

I made the introductions, and Reed tried hard not to look appalled at finding himself introduced to people who actually lived in such splendor.

"Have you gotten your shoes wet?" Mary Margaret asked him. "Do you want to come inside and dry off?"

"No," said Reed.

"You're more than welcome," Agnes added. "And there's coffee."

"I have to watch the dog," he said.

Mary Margaret's brows rose at Reed's devotion to duty, but she said nothing.

Orlando arrived then, panting and pink-faced from exertion. His tie was askew and his clean parka already showed filthy paw prints. To me, he said, "What's the dog's name?"

"Spike. Uh, be careful, Orlando. He's been known to bite."

"He won't bite me."

Spike ran up to Orlando and jumped against his knee, flourishing the cap. Orlando hesitated for an instant, then grabbed it and they played tug-of-war, Spike growling ferociously.

Reed and I exchanged a nervous glance.

Spike won the fight and dashed off with the cap. Orlando looked up at Reed. "Do you know Shaquille O'Neal?"

"Orlando," Mary Margaret said sternly. "Get your hat before the dog chews it up."

He knew better than to disobey her, so he romped off in pursuit of Spike.

"Sorry," Mary Margaret said to Reed. To me, she said, "Gallagher's in the workshop." She pointed. "That side door. Half-hidden by the bushes, see?"