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know what it was.
    She hoped the trust they’d established during their case in Waverley wasn’t a chimera. She valued it. She wanted it again, because it had been a long time since anyone had trusted her and she’d felt the same in return. She was looking for the equalizer.
    Rachel lowered her window. It was a crisp fall day outside, with a coruscation of wind that arranged the air in rippling phrases. The broken spindles of leaves were assembled in piles along the sidewalks as they drove.
    â€œWhat now?” she asked Khattak.
    He made a show of consulting his wristwatch, one of the few men she knew who still wore one in the days of the iPhone.
    â€œWe should visit Melanie Blessant, if only to rule her out. She seems to have loomed large in Drayton’s life. And if possible, I’d like to view this museum.”
    Rule her out of what? Rachel wondered. A fall from the cliff? But she knew the cherished maxim of “follow the woman, follow the money” as well as Khattak did.
    They had an accidental death, they had a woman who benefited from it, and they had a great deal of money in play. Or at least, they would, once a will turned up.
    â€œWhat about the safe? We could get Paul or Dec on it. Paul, most likely.”
    Paul Gaffney was the tech expert on their team, a viable choice. Khattak’s agenda didn’t seem to suggest any hurry to unlock the safe, however.
    As if in answer to her thoughts, he said, “Let’s give it a day or so before we start using up resources. We may find there’s nothing here after all. A man fell to his death, that’s it.”
    From the tone of his voice, that was what he was hoping for. A short, simple solution that was anything except what was rattling around in his thoughts.
    His face was paler than usual today, the line of his mouth tightly held, his movements edgy. Something was weighing on him like an anvil. And it was either Drayton or Nathan Clare.
    â€œWhat did you think of Newhall?”
    She waited for him to brake at the crosswalk ahead, which he did at the last minute. An elderly woman in a pair of green flannel pants glared at them over her shoulder as she sped through the crosswalk.
    â€œHe seemed cagey, I thought,” she went on, without waiting for his answer. “Also a bit intense. A little quick to take offense.”
    â€œHe didn’t like Drayton, but if he’s comfortable with us coming by his house, he must have some notion of public duty.”
    Rachel pondered this. She hadn’t found Newhall remotely attractive, yet there was something compelling about his lean-limbed energy.
    â€œHe did a fair bit of finger-pointing. Gave us two other names to go for.”
    Khattak looked at her briefly. “There may be no fingers to point. It could be he thinks there’s nothing to hide.”
    â€œWe didn’t ask him much about Drayton himself,” she observed.
    â€œI think Ms. Blessant will be able to tell us what we wish to know.”
    â€œThe grieving widow?”
    â€œShe isn’t a widow, and for all we know, she may not be grieving.”
    â€œThe insurance policies speak for themselves. So might the will. A hundred thousand dollars that doesn’t go to some frou-frou museum might end up lining her pockets instead.”
    Khattak grinned. “Newhall said they weren’t going to take the money.”
    â€œI’m thinking given Drayton’s Barbie doll taste in women, maybe Newhall’s real beef is that Drayton didn’t waste much time on him. He may have focused a little more on the lady with the strange name. Mink something. Maybe she had plans for the museum that Newhall didn’t know about. Maybe the blessed Blessant wanted to put a stop to that.”
    Khattak looked at her, his cat-eyes shrewd. “So you’re no longer proceeding on the accident theory.”
    â€œMurder, murder everywhere,” she replied airily. She could smell the freshness