Wink wrinkled her face. "If you're looking for romantic-type information, Dusty had been going out with Vic Zaruski. They'd just had a bad breakup. The end."

I pressed my lips together. "I didn't get much of a feeling for the atmosphere at Hanrahan & Jule," I said, my tone innocent.

"You didn't, really?" She took a deep breath. "The whole place feels as if it's in a constant state of power struggle."

"Between whom?"

"Between the partners over whose cases are more important. Between the a.s.sociates over who has the most work. Between the lawyers and the paralegals, when we had two of them, over whom the paralegals should be working for. And that leads to stress. You couldn't complain, because...well, just because."

When she didn't offer any more, I asked, "Was Dusty in this power struggle? And did it turn deadly?"

"I don't know. And that's what I told the cops, honest."

There was another long silence, finally broken by Tom calling us to dinner. As she was about to follow me through the kitchen door, Wink stopped. I turned back to make sure she was okay. That little chin of hers was wobbling again, and her hands were clenched. All her pale brown hair's tiny waves seemed to tremble at once. She dashed wetness out of her eyes, then cleared her throat and moved into the warm, inviting s.p.a.ce, where the rich scent of roasting beef filled the air like a cushion.

"Hi again, Wink," Arch said, his voice grave. "I'm glad you came. My mom's a really good cook."

"Hey!" Tom interjected, his voice playful. "Who's cooking this dinner, anyway? By the way, Wink, I'm Tom."

Wink nodded to Tom, then smiled at the boys and me. "Thanks, Arch, I already know how good a cook your mom is. She brings...brought us breakfast at the firm, and everybody was always fighting over the food." Her cheeks colored.

"Sorry about what happened," Gus chimed in. "Arch said the dead girl was your friend."

"She was." Wink swallowed and struggled for control.

"That sucks," Gus said.

"Welcome anyway, Wink." Tom moved forward and yanked out a chair. "Come sit down."

This Wink did. Tom pulled the tenderloin out of the oven to let it rest, then began to a.s.semble the baked potatoes, steamed broccoli, and cheese sauce that he knew Arch enjoyed having with friends. I nipped back out to the living room and picked up Wink's sherry gla.s.s-I'd managed to get through our conversation with only a couple of small sips-and brought it back out to the kitchen. I checked the thermometer that Tom had left inserted in the meat. I was happy to see that the beef juices had settled, and the temp indicated a perfect medium rare. In addition to the cheddar-cheese sauce, Tom had managed to reheat the bearnaise I'd made, without curdling it.

"You didn't think I could do two sauces at once, did you?" he asked mildly, when I raised my eyebrows at the pair of gravy boats with their perfectly smooth, golden loads. "Why don't you sit down, Miss G.?"

So I did. To my great astonishment, I was famished. And then I remembered that I hadn't actually had breakfast. Come to think of it, I hadn't had much of a lunch, either. (A salad didn't count as a meal, I always told myself.) Tom had shaken up a mild balsamic vinaigrette and now he sprinkled judicious amounts over his salade composee. Arch, Gus, and even Wink poured rivers of creamy cheddar sauce over their potatoes and broccoli, while Tom and I opted for salad. The tenderloin was done to perfection: pink and tender on the inside, with a crunchy, delicious roasted exterior bearing crisp herbs. With some reheated soft rolls that we all slathered with b.u.t.ter, it was a feast. Hunger makes the best sauce, I'd learned when I was nine. No kidding.

And perhaps wine makes the best smoother-over of distraught emotions, I thought after a while. Wink had twisted her rail-thin body into what looked like an impossible yoga position to watch Tom open a bottle of Burgundy, a Cote de Nuits. Our dinner wasn't exactly a cause for any kind of celebration, but the meal and the wine made us feel better. Cared for, even. Which was what Tom was good at, I reminded myself.

"They keep hundred-dollar-a-bottle Cote de Nuits Burgundy in a locked cabinet at the firm," Wink observed. "But it's just for meetings between the partners and the clients. Not for the receptionist and paralegals, I mean." She looked at Tom with sudden interest. "Would the cops have gone through all the locked cabinets?"

Tom's eyes were hooded. "I'm sure they're over there going through everything, trust me."

I took a big forkful of salad, curious myself to know what they might have found inside there, since I, too, knew of the locked cabinet. But like the receptionist and paralegals, the caterer wasn't allowed to fiddle with the heart-of-maple cabinets, either. Still, Tom was right: searching for Dusty's killer, the cops would have demanded entry to every locked drawer and cabinet in the place. There was no question that our sheriff's department was good at crime-scene mechanics, largely, I think, because they feared having Tom bawl them out if they screwed up.

The Burgundy was delicious. I'm not one of those folks who can say a wine has complex chocolate and citrus notes along with undertones of blackberry, but I can say, "OmiG.o.d, this stuff is fantastic!" Tom beamed.

The wine also seemed to have a calming effect on Wink. Arch and Gus, oblivious to our pleasured imbibing, were going over to Gus's grandparents' condo to spend the night, and they continued to chat and burble and interrupt each other about the video games they were going to play and the movies they were going to watch. Every now and then they asked Wink, but not us, if she had seen this or that movie. Most of the time she had, and the boys invariably found this cool. Meanwhile, the redness began to dissipate from Wink's eyes, and I thought I detected the tension melting from her face.

At length, Wink drained her winegla.s.s. Smiling, she said, "Hey, Gus! I read in the St. Luke's bulletin that you were going to be baptized."

"Yup," said Gus, his standard affirmative.

"By Sutherland?" she asked.

"Yup."

"Well, you know," Wink continued with a sly smile, "he always quizzes the confirmands ahead of time. Takes them into a Sunday-school room and asks them about the sacraments and how G.o.d structured things so we could be saved. You know your stuff?"

Gus was looking at her with alarm. "How'm I supposed to know how G.o.d structured things?" he cried, his eyes wide. "I don't even know how the government structures things! This really sucks."

"Aw, don't worry, Gus," Arch said authoritatively. "It's not that bad. It's sort of like Dungeons and Dragons. You have to learn how any particular world works before you can move around in it. You ever play D&D?"

Gus's forehead wrinkled. "I learned some witchcraft in the commune."

"Let's not go there," I said quickly.

"But...you're still coming to my christening, aren't you, Arch?" Gus asked, suddenly worried. "Maybe you could give me some answers, you know, like on what he's going to ask before I have to take this quiz."

"I've sort of fallen away from the church," Arch admitted.

"Man," Gus retorted. "I thought this was important to you; that's why I'm doing it!"

"Right, right, I know," Arch said. "It is important to me, I promise. I'm coming to your thing, even if I haven't been going to church for a while." He gave Gus a rea.s.suring smile. "It'll be okay."

The way you've been driving lately, I thought, you might want to start praying. But I kept mum. Meanwhile, Tom picked up the Burgundy and poured Wink and yours truly a second gla.s.s. No question about it: I was going to sleep tonight.

"You didn't drive over here, did you?" Tom asked.

"I'll be fine," Wink insisted.

The boys sang out, "Uh-oh," then scampered off to watch television until Gus's grandparents arrived.

"We could drive you home," I offered. "Or you could stay here," I added as an afterthought. If we didn't know the people at H&J the way Wink did, maybe she would feel better not being alone tonight. "We could make up the couch in the living room, or you could stay in Arch's room, since he's going over to-"

"We'll think of something," Tom interrupted, shooting me a warning glance: Best not to distract someone whom you want to get going telling you her story. If your informant-or helpful person, as Tom sometimes called them-starts worrying about who's outside, or where they're going to have lunch, or if their car is parked legally, then the flow of data is going to come to a sudden halt.

Of course, I didn't know whether we should be interrogating Wink or not. But I let go of it. If she needed to spill her guts about her relationship with Dusty, or goings-on among what Sally Routt called the "vermin" at H&J, then fine. Still...

My train of thought was derailed by the phone ringing. Eight o'clock on a Friday night? Must be a client.

"I checked with my husband," Nora Ellis said without identifying herself, "and he wants to proceed with the party."

"Fine, fine," I replied, trying to make a smooth transition. "You're talking about Mr. Ellis wanting to go ahead with his birthday celebration. I understand."

"He said it would be what Dusty wanted us to do."

"He thinks it's what Dusty would want you to do?"

"Goldy," she said, her voice suddenly kind. "Forgive me. I'm just nervous about this going well. I want Donald to love it. Okay? I'll see you tomorrow morning at ten. And I've gotten you some help, as I promised. I hired Louise Upton to oversee things in the kitchen."

"That is so unnecessary," I said. I made my tone gentle, too, to keep from screaming. But she had already hung up. To Tom and Wink, I said, "Nora Ellis is going to proceed, as she called it, with her party for her husband. Apparently, Donald Ellis thinks it's what Dusty would have wanted them to do. And Nora hired Louise Upton to oversee things in the kitchen."

Wink snorted. "Poor you. And Dusty wasn't even invited to their party. None of the staff is ever included in their reindeer games. Plus, Miss Uptight will just make your life miserable."

"That doesn't surprise me," I said in a low voice. I couldn't imagine Louise Upton shedding her armor to be helpful in the kitchen. Would she carry her own sword? For heaven's sake, I told myself, shut up and stop being such a b.i.t.c.h. Somebody had loved Louise once, a husband, now an ex-husband, who was milking her for alimony. If that was what made her difficult, then I could suddenly understand her a lot better.

"I know you had to talk to the cops, too," Wink said, her eyes on me, her tone half questioning.

"Yeah, I did. How'd it go for you?"

Wink rubbed her forehead with both hands. "Not too bad. Some of the same stuff you were asking me in the living room. Who didn't get along with Dusty? What was she working on? Man, it got boring. Then they'd ask me the same question in a sort of different way, like I'd trip myself up in a lie, or something."

Tom's grin was good-natured. "Well, how do you think we'll catch folks who aren't telling the truth?"

Wink straightened in her chair. "Dusty was working on a few things. She'd been working since January for Charlie Baker, trying to help him get his affairs in order. She was spending her office time on a big oil-and-gas-lease mess, part of a ridiculously complicated estate that won't be settled before I'm forty."

"Don't knock turning forty," I said lightheartedly. "It may seem far off now, but someday..."

Wink managed to smile. "Anyway, the lease thing was with Donald Ellis, who isn't a partner. Can you imagine trying to find anything, much less oil-and-gas leases, in Donald Ellis's office? But he's a hard worker, I'll give him that. Anyway, then in March, Charlie Baker died, and Richard, who is a partner, was handling the estate. So all of a sudden Dusty wasn't helping Donald anymore at all, she was working full-time for King Richard, trying to get everything in Charlie's big estate in order."

"So did the cops make anything out of all that?" I asked.

"I don't know. You'd have to ask Georgina, the one paralegal we have left."

"You had more paralegals before?"

"Yeah," Wink said. "Two others. But they were hired away by another firm last year. They haven't been replaced yet. Marilou, the legal secretary, has been interviewing replacements for the secretary Richard fired. The guys have been bringing in extra paralegals, too, when they're really snowed under. They get a lot done."

"Do you mean the paralegals?" I asked, confused.

"Of course I do! You should see how hard those extras worked, when they were with H&J. Plus, Dusty was like a slave to the guys. Marilou and Georgina are, too, when they're not in Hawaii taking notes at meetings that the attorneys are supposed to go to. Let me tell you what I've learned from working in the law firm. Here's what paralegals can't do: They can't give legal-costs estimates to the client. They can't share in the firm's profits. And they can't talk in court. But they do all the other work, trust me. Show me a group of male lawyers who don't have most of their work done by female paralegals, and I'll show you a graveyard."

"Now there's a happy thought," Tom said cheerfully. "So if Dusty was getting so much work done for the firm, why would someone kill her? Did she have enemies in the firm? Or not?"

Wink shook her head sadly. "She and Alonzo were close. They worked out together. Really, the problem was, except for the occasional flare-up with Louise Upton, Dusty got along with everyone."

"Why was that a problem?" I asked.

Wink leaned forward. "Because you don't mix with the other levels of the fief in a fiefdom. You don't try to get along with everyone, because it's only going to make you miserable. And most of all, you don't get ambitious."

"How was she ambitious, specifically?" I asked.

"She answered questions the lawyers should have," she said. "She was possessive about her relationship with Charlie Baker. If you're not even a paralegal yet, you don't make yourself the guardian of one of the firm's biggest clients." I raised an eyebrow at Tom. Now he, too, wanted to know if Dusty's legendary determination and get-up-and-go-ness were what had gotten her killed.

The phone rang. Not another client. Not at this hour. Besides the Ellis party, the only upcoming events I had were the reception after Gus's christening on Sunday and the post-ribbon-cutting celebration for the Mountain Pastoral Center on Monday night. The menus were set; the checks had been written; the food had been ordered. The caller ID gave no hint. I made a quick apology to Tom and Wink and pressed the talk b.u.t.ton.

"Goldilocks' Cate-"

"Goldy? This is Miss Upton."

Oh, boy. Past eight o'clock on a Friday night? No, it was more likely that the formidable office manager wanted to give me some new instructions. We'll need you to bring breakfast in on Monday to a new location...Oh, and by the way, no mention of the unfortunate event of Thursday night...

"Miss Uh-" I began again.

"Mr. Claggett and Mr. Ellis and I will be over in a little bit."

"Be over in a little bit?" I squawked, glancing around the kitchen with its ma.s.s of dirty dishes and sauce-coated pans. "Can't we just talk on the pho-"

Louise Upton cleared her throat. "We will be over in a little bit."

"What little bit? I've got-"

"About twenty minutes."

She hung up before asking me if I was mourning the death of my young neighbor, if I would be home, if I had people here, if I had work to do, if her visit was in any way inconvenient...all of which were true. But did she care? She did not. At least she was acting in character. I told Tom and Wink that Miss Uptight, plus Alonzo Claggett and Donald Ellis, would be arriving momentarily, and could they help me wash, or at least hide, all these dishes?

The last, the very last person I wanted to see that evening was Louise Upton. She would want to know every single detail of my discovery of Dusty, so that her mind could begin working on a spin that exonerated the firm. For Miss Upton loved the firm, she glorified it, she obsessed about it. She had told me once, "I am married to this firm."

I'd avoided saying, "Poor you." And now there was this ex-husband saga to deal with...should I tell Tom about that before Miss Uptight arrived?

Still, my promise to Sally Routt loomed in my mind. I will try, I'd promised, to find out what happened to Dusty. If anyone knew what negative tales could be told about H&J, it was Louise Upton. But that old legalism about a wife not testifying against her husband pertained to the nth degree here. Louise Upton would rather be stripped naked on Main Street than spill her guts about the firm.

And what about Alonzo Claggett, the gambler, and Donald Ellis, the oil-and-gas guy? Alonzo had been embarra.s.sed by not knowing something that Dusty had known, and I was willing to bet the same thing had happened to Donald. Maybe one of them had had it in for her.

"Man, what are you thinking about, Goldy?" Wink demanded. "You look as if you just bit into an onion."

"A minute ago, I was thinking about Miss Uptight standing naked in the middle of Main Street."

"I'd rather bite into an onion," Wink acknowledged. She finished drying the gravy boat and put it on a shelf. "I need to rock on home. Thanks for dinner. And I'm fine, I've only had two gla.s.ses of wine, total."

"Nope," Tom said. "I'll drive you and then walk back here. You only live two blocks away." Tom eyed the kitchen, which was clean. "You okay with this, Miss G.? If I go right now, I'll probably be back by the time they arrive."

"Sure, of course."

Wink handed Tom her keys and told him her car was the black Jetta. Tears welled in her eyes as she turned back to me.

"Please don't tell anybody what I told you. About Miss Upton. It could get me into trouble."

"I'm not going to get you into trouble," I said gently. "But you should tell Tom what you told me. About Louise's ex-husband, the alimony, and her needing money. It might help the police, in some way that you can't imagine at the moment." I added, "And you can call me about anything else you might think of."

Wink slipped into her blazer and worked on gathering up Latte, who, after all the commotion, had fallen asleep on our couch. She heaved the slumbering hound up into her arms, where he sagged like a sack of blocks. Panting, Wink started down the hall. Almost as an afterthought, she said, "It's unlikely I'll think of anything else."

CHAPTER 10.