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man, his aged but boyish-looking face topped by coarse, reddish hair that bristled out over his ears. Though I knew what he was insinuating, I wasn’t worried about being incriminated in any sort of crime here—if, indeed, a crime had even been committed. Wendell’s secretary, Gwen, had seen me leave Wendell’s office while he was still perfectly alive and well. She could attest to the fact that I hadn’t returned for an hour—as could any number of people in the Smythe offices, including Alan Bennet, who had found me working away at his desk.
    As we talked, the detective seemed to figure out that I wasn’t someone of whom to be suspicious, but in fact quite the opposite—someone who could provide valuable information about the entire situation. Though the medical examiner still hadn’t identified the cause of death, it seemed as if the detective suspected foul play, particularly when I described the sounds from the bathroom and my subsequent pursuit of someone running from the office. All in all, we seemed to agree: Something just wasn’t quite right about the death of Wendell Smythe.
    Luckily for me, having grown up surrounded by cops, I knew the lingo of an investigation, not to mention the fact that I was a licensed private investigator myself. I made sure to mention my lieutenant father and my detective brother more than once. I didn’t bring up my own experience in investigations or my law degree. You never knew how information like that might go over with cops; I thought it would be best to just coast along on my family’s laurels for the time being.
    When Keegan was finished with his questions, he thanked me for my cooperation.
    “Of course, I’m sure we’ll be speaking with you again,” he said as he swung the door open. “So you’ll understand why we have to ask you to remain in the area, at least for the next few days.”
    I had known it would be coming, but that still didn’t make it any easier to hear.
    “I live near DC,” I said, feeling guilty and selfish even as I pleaded with him to let me leave. “Surely I can go on home and then come back up here if necessary.”
    “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Keegan replied. “For the time being, I’m afraid I must insist that you remain nearby.”
    “But I don’t have any clothes, I don’t have anywhere to stay, I don’t—”
    “Excuse me, Detective,” a woman interrupted, suddenly standing before us. “Mrs. Webber will stay with me. There’s plenty of room.”
    I looked at the woman, wondering why she seemed familiar to me. She was petite and attractive in a well-preserved sort of way, with expensive hair and clothes, a meticulous manicure, and a rock the size of Gibraltar on the ring finger of her left hand.
    “I’m Mrs. Wendell Smythe,” she said to me, holding out her hand. “Marion.”
    Of course. The portrait on the wall in Wendell’s office. She had been striking in her 20s and was now an elegant beauty in what I guessed to be her late 60s.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Smythe—” I said, shaking her hand.
    “Call me Marion, please.”
    “Marion. But I couldn’t possibly impose. I’ll get a hotel room—”
    “Nonsense,” she interrupted. “My house is huge, with tons of empty bedrooms. Sticking you in a hotel after what you’ve been through today would be unspeakable. I won’t take no for an answer. And Wendell wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
    I had a feeling she was right about that. I studied the woman in front of me, wondering how she could be so strong. Then I noticed the shaking of her fingers and the pale face beneath her carefully applied makeup. Something told me to accept her gracious offer, that the kindest thing I could do under the circumstances was to become a temporary guest in her home.
    I thought about that as we drove through the city. She had a large beautiful Cadillac with a driver, and I followed behind in mySaturn, wondering if I could be of particular comfort to her because I was a widow, too.