Flynn's jaw tightened. Rodriguez glanced over at him, then answered, "We only have a description at this point. No name. But the man's description matches that of Lenore Honore's ex-husband."

"That's good news."

"No," Rodriguez said. "We thought it was good news." He ran his bottom teeth over his top lip. "This morning we expected to be able to issue a warrant for Lenore Honore's ex-husband's arrest." Another huge sigh. "But the man has an airtight alibi. He's in the hospital with appendicitis. In New Mexico."

"Oh."

From the look on Flynn's face, he wanted to be anywhere but here. "So who is this mystery businessman?" I asked. "Seems to me if you find him, you'll be a lot closer to finding answers."

Flynn shifted position, delivering the unmistakable message that he didn't care to be discussing the issue with me.

"That's one of the reasons we're here," Rodriguez said, ignoring Flynn's behavior. "We wanted to ask you if you'd had any visitors yesterday who fit the description. This situation could be cleared up very quickly if we find that the individual in question did indeed have business with you."

"Not me," I said. "Except for the film crew and tour groups, I didn't deal with anyone other than Marshfield staff members yesterday."

Rodriguez perked up. "Then maybe this is a valuable lead to follow. We've asked the staffer who stopped the man to go over security recordings. There's a chance he'll show up on the tapes."

Even Flynn lost his bored expression for a few seconds. "Did Bennett Marshfield have any appointments yesterday?"

"I don't know of any. He's out at an auction today, but I'll find out for sure and get back to you."

"Quickly," Flynn said.

"That reminds me." I'd debated bringing the subject up, but it wouldn't do any harm. "I had an odd interaction with a man today."

"What does this have to do with the murder?" Flynn asked.

I faced Rodriguez. "You know the film crew is staying at the Oak Tree Hotel, right?"

He nodded.

"I was there this morning to help Mark Ellroy transition to the Marshfield Hotel; while I waited for him downstairs, I saw a guy who didn't seem right."

I explained about the man's interest in the morning's news conference, and how he'd glared at me when I'd absentmindedly corrected Flynn's p.r.o.nunciation of Lenore's last name. The younger detective glowered. I plunged on, explaining how the man in the lobby hadn't looked at all familiar, but that he'd seemed to recognize me. And I told them about the anger. "He wanted to put distance between himself and me," I said. "That much was abundantly clear."

"And you got all that from a glare."

I wasn't about to let Flynn badger me. "It wasn't simply a glare. It was malevolence staring straight at me."

Rodriguez had pulled out his notebook and was scribbling as I spoke. "What can you tell me about him?"

I described the guy as best I could, mentioning that he looked ready to work out or head toward the pool. "He was shaved-head bald," I said, then stopped.

"What?" Rodriguez asked.

"It didn't dawn on me until this minute, but his head was a different color than his face."

Flynn made an unpleasant noise.

"Explain," Rodriguez said.

"His head was pale, but his face was tan. As though he'd been out in the sun with his head covered." I was putting two and two together as I spoke. "For years. Like . . . he may have shaved his head only recently."

Rodriguez's heavily lidded eyes widened slightly. "Hmm," he said as he continued to write notes.

"Nothing against the law about that," Flynn said.

"The man Mark Ellroy and John Kitts saw," I said, my train of thought gaining steam, "what did they say about him?"

Rodriguez licked his thumb and paged back in his notebook. "Middle-aged. Slim. Head full of graying hair. Light complexion, though tan. Possible tattoo or birthmark on neck." He looked up. "You see any kind of birthmark?"

"No, but . . ." Now I was really convinced I'd seen the murderer. "He was wearing a towel around his neck. I'll bet he shaved his head so that no one would recognize him."

Rodriguez didn't share my enthusiasm, but he didn't dismiss my concerns either. "Would you recognize this man if you saw him again?"

"Absolutely."

"And you say he's staying at the Oak Tree Hotel?"

"I a.s.sume so. He was there, at least."

"Worth a look." He hoisted himself to his feet and gestured toward the door with his chin. Flynn followed his partner's lead. "You'll get back to us about Mr. Bennett's appointments?" Rodriguez asked.

"Right away."

Chapter 13.

I HAD A LOT OF WORK AHEAD OF ME, NONE OF which had anything to do with the latest murder, yet I nonetheless found myself staring out my office windows trying to piece the puzzle together. My mind wandered, as it often did, and I recalled this morning's interaction with Jack. I didn't know what it was about him that kept me hoping for more.

I wondered what Jack was thinking right now about the alleged tryst I knew he imagined I'd had with Mark Ellroy. In the Oak Tree Hotel, no less. Jack's erroneous a.s.sumption disturbed me more than I cared to admit. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do about it unless I called him to explain and, oh, wouldn't that be awkward?

Like two rival spirits on my shoulders, my logical side urged me to have patience with him. "It's too soon," she whispered. The other spirit didn't attempt to keep her voice down. "You have one life," she reminded me. "Why waste it waiting when he may never come around? If you meant enough to him, he would share more of his life with you. Let him go. Move on."

I blew out a breath, still staring. I didn't even notice Frances at the door until she cleared her throat. "The Mister sent word that he'll be down soon," she said. "He's back early from his errand."

"Thanks, Frances."

She sidled up to the desk. "What you said earlier, about me knowing everything."

I arched one brow. "You have more to share?"

"I don't know if you'll want to hear it."

She sat, letting me know I was going to hear this whether I wanted to or not.

The look on her face, her position at the edge of the seat, and the way she'd come in as I'd been thinking about Jack, shot flashes of apprehension from my stomach up to my heart. Frances had an uncanny way of knowing exactly what I was thinking.

"What is it?" I asked.

She hesitated. It was about Jack. I was sure of it now.

"Spill it, Frances," I said with more than a little sharpness to my voice.

Rather than get her back up, she worked her mouth. "You've been fair to me, more or less," she began. "I'm not saying I want to start a fan club or anything, but you've done a better job taking over for Abe than anybody expected, especially me. And because you've been fair to me, I think you ought to know sooner rather than later."

This was definitely not going to be good.

When she looked up, her tadpole eyebrows were as far apart as I'd ever seen them. "He should have told you himself." She pursed her lined lips. "I suppose it falls to me, though. It always falls to me."

Just get on with it, I wanted to scream.

"Our landscape architect."

"Jack?" Who else could it be?

The briefest of nods. "He used to have a girlfriend. Years ago. Before the trouble."

I remembered. He'd told me about her. About how she'd left when he'd been accused of murder.

Becke, I thought, as Frances said, "Becke."

"What about her?"

"Last name was Anderson way back when, but she got married. Moved to Westville."

Did I know where this was going? Yes, I thought I did.

"She's back," Frances said, confirming it. "Divorced now. With kids in tow, not two weeks ago. She's staying with her folks until she finds a place of her own. Word is the minute she learned that Jack had been cleared, she raced back to rekindle the old flame."

"And?" I couldn't stop the question from tumbling out. "Are they? Rekindling?"

Frances wore a decided scowl. "They've been seen together."

"Have you seen them together?"

She nodded, watching me. "I can't say that they were exactly acting like lovebirds, but I can tell you they were friendly. You know, warm."

Rather than wilt under her scrutiny, I resumed staring out the window. "He doesn't owe me anything," I said. "We have no commitment to each other. He has every right to live his life the way he wants."

Frances didn't say a word. Silence lay like a dead thing between us. Finally, I couldn't stand it and turned to face her again.

Her eyes narrowed. I could tell she'd been waiting for my attention.

"Is that what you think?" she asked softly. "That he doesn't owe you anything?" She made a noise that sounded like pheh. "That fool owes you his life. His brother's, too. One of these days he's going to wake up and realize that. And when he does, you're going to be long gone. Mark my words."

She stood up and trundled out of the room.

"Thanks, Frances," I whispered.

BENNETT AND I MET AN HOUR LATER IN ONE of the few third-floor rooms that hadn't been converted into office s.p.a.ce. I was certain a great deal of history had been lost when the second and third floors of the west wing were redesigned for administrative use. I was glad, however, that the architect had minimized our commercial footprint by keeping most of the home's original details intact.

This room, about fifty feet down from my office, sat ten steps inside the administrative area; just beyond it, double doors led into the third-floor Gathering Hall, where a guard was posted whenever the mansion was open to visitors. At one time this gorgeous s.p.a.ce had been Warren Sr.'s bedroom, but the noise from guests reveling so close to his quarters late into the night had inspired him to find a quieter location for sleep. The thing was, he loved the view from this spot, as well as the room's layout. Expansive, as most rooms in the mansion were, this L-shaped sanctuary boasted a unique feature of having a separate, sunken reading area. Along the wall of windows, three steps down from the main area, a pair of rose-hued velvet chairs faced one another overlooking the western expanse of the estate. Even after Warren had given up the room for sleeping, he was said to return here often to enjoy his nightly brandy while watching the sun set.

"Welcome to the 'man cave,' Gracie," Bennett said when I arrived.

The description was apt. "I didn't realize you knew that term."

Bennett smirked. "I hear more than people suspect."

"I believe it. Why the Sword Room today?" I asked.

"The Sword Room," he repeated, chuckling. "I've always referred to it as 'the old bedroom.' But I like yours better."

Warren had decorated the room with every weapon he'd ever had the pleasure to meet. Although several of the more historically interesting pieces were now displayed in gla.s.s cases in other areas, this room housed the bulk of his collection. To the right and left of the fireplace were dozens of swords. Crisscrossed, and rising from the top of the wainscot to the bottom of the room's crown molding, they formed a herringbone pattern of deadly metal with an oak beam running vertically down their center, locking them in place. Over the marble fireplace mantel a broadsword with a winged hilt claimed the place of honor.

I knew from Marshfield history that this handcrafted sword had been presented as a gift to Bennett's father by a dear friend who had emigrated from j.a.pan before the start of World War II. When it became clear he would be moved to an internment camp, he asked Warren Jr. to keep the sword for him. Upon his release, when Warren attempted to return it, his friend refused. He said that Warren's letters had kept him confident of the future throughout his ordeal, and because of the strength he derived from his friend's support, he wanted Warren to keep the sword as a gift.

A powerful, frightening weapon with wide, wavy edges, its grip sported a cruel-looking jagged wing. Even though it wasn't extremely valuable in the financial sense, its sentimental worth rendered it priceless.

"Have you ever taken that down?" I asked.

"Of course. What young man wouldn't?" His eyes got a faraway look. "I haven't touched in years, though. I should."

"The maids keep it dusted and we have a service come by once a year to make certain all the swords are maintained." I said. "It's kept in pristine condition. Nothing stopping you."

"Why don't you give it a go? You told me you fenced in college."

"College foils are nothing compared to that." I laughed. "I probably couldn't even lift it." On the floor next to the fireplace was a bra.s.s plate I hadn't noticed before. Levered doors were set into a horizontal frame. "What's that?"

Bennett chuckled. "My grandfather enjoyed smoking cigars and had this chute installed to dispose of stogies when he was finished with them. Over time, the servants came up with an alternate use and decided to make life easier for themselves by using it as a place to discard fireplace ashes." He pointed vaguely north. "It empties out near the trash in the bas.e.m.e.nt. When my grandfather discovered this new efficiency, he regretted not installing a chute next to all the fireplaces in the house." Bennett shrugged. "You can't think of everything, I guess."

Another tidbit of history I hadn't known. "You keep a lot of precious items in here." I pointed across the room to a new addition. "What's that?"

His eyes twinkled. "We'll talk about that later." He guided me to the two seats in front of the windows and gestured for me to sit. I did. "Hillary hates this room," he said as he took the chair facing mine. "She thinks all the weaponry makes it barbaric. Hence, it's ideal for safekeeping." He spared me responding by changing the subject. "Speaking of unpleasantness, how is Frances?"

"Better," I said. "Surprisingly."

His smile was wide. "Working your magic on the poor soul, are you? You bamboozled me after only a few weeks. Took a little longer for her, but then again, she's a lot tougher than I am. I'm just a cream puff inside."