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“You know Casablanca Candy?”
    I nodded. Casablanca’s was one of the big candy companies, up there with Russell Stover and Mars. I knew Paul was rich. He never told me. But he never looked at prices when he ordered in a restaurant. When his car went in the shop it came out the very next day, because he went to the very best shop. He always had new shoes. And most of all, he never complained about money. Only a rich person never complains about money. Even then it’s not a sure bet.
    And, of course, as soon as we’d started dating I’d learned everything about him, from his bank account balances to his hat size. I had a file on Paul as thick as my thumb was long. I knew nearly everything about Emily: her husband’s income, her daughter’s traffic tickets, her million-dollar home in Connecticut, her overused account at Neiman Marcus.
    “That’s us,” she said. “We’re rich. When Paul got married, the lawyers told him—you know, do a background check. Sign a prenup. But Paul was never into any of that. He wanted to live like a regular person. He never told people about the money, hardly spent any of it. And when it came to getting married, he wanted to do it just like everyone else. No lawyers, no prenup. Nothing.”
    The food came. Emily stared at it like she’d forgotten what food was.
    “Try it,” I said. “It’s better than it looks.”
    She took a bite hesitantly, like a cat tasting something new, and then ate a little more. When her cheeks looked a little pinker I asked, “Why do you think it was Lydia?”
    “For the money,” Emily said. “I knew from the beginning—I mean, she’s from
nothing.
” A quick look of liberal guilt passed her face. “Not that I—I mean, I didn’t—”
    “No, of course,” I said. “I didn’t think that you did. And that’s reasonable. It’s a really natural assumption.” I had no idea if that was reasonable or natural, but I wanted to keep her talking. “But did anything happen?” I asked. “Anything specific or concrete to make you think Lydia . . . ?”
    Emily frowned. “No, nothing,” she said. It sounded like that wasn’t the question she’d wanted me to ask. “Just I can’t imagine why . . .”
    Her voice trailed off. Of course she couldn’t imagine why. All Emily’s life she’d imagined no one would like her if she didn’t have money. Lydia had been born with nothing or less, but she had her music and her brains and her looks to get what she needed. She didn’t need to kill Paul for his money. She could have gotten money from a hundred men without asking. She’d just have to not say no to what they offered. Besides, she and Paul didn’t live so high on the hog. Other than their house in the Mission, which had cost about a billion dollars, they lived like everyone else, except they didn’t worry about money while they did it.
    Of course, I’d considered it myself. The wife was always the first suspect, and for good reason. But it didn’t make any sense. There was no logic to it. Lydia had nothing to gain. If she’d wanted to leave Paul—and I didn’t think she did—he would have given her a divorce and plenty of dough.
    Paul hadn’t said nice things about his sister to me. Her name had come up a few times: She lived in “that fucking house in Connecticut.” She was married to “some fucking guy who works for Goldman Sachs.” Paul could be a little bitchy if you touched the right nerve. Like most people he wasn’t especially proud of where he’d come from. Lots of investment bankers and charity fundraisers, lots of women with highlighted hair and perfect teeth. Private schools and fancy colleges. The ghetto of the rich, insular and narrow-minded.
    I told Emily I’d think about it. And I didn’t say outright, but I implied that things always seem awful after the death of a loved one, and it’s natural to look for easy answers, but those answers are usually wrong. I also told her I’d be working on the case anyway.