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    â€œI’VE NEVER BEEN IN a private detective’s office before,” Stella said after Maggie had settled her in the visitor’s chair. She had discarded the sombre clothes from the day of the funeral and was now wearing a leaf-green wool dress and matching coat that accentuated her curly auburn hair and hazel eyes. “Whatever made you take up a job like this?”
    â€œLong story,” Maggie replied, smiling. “Now, while we’re waiting for Henny to bring in some coffee, what about taking another look at these names and telling me if anyone is missing?”
    â€œFor a start,” Stella replied, taking the sheet of paper from Maggie, “there are only six names here.” She laughed nervously. “Of course, Schaefer gave you this, so he wouldn’t count the women.”
    â€œI’ve already found that out,” Maggie said, handing her a pen. “So how about completing the list for me?”
    â€œI see you’ve filled in the ones I gave you yesterday.” She opened her large handbag and dived down into its depths. Maggie’s heart sank as she watched Stella pull out a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked, lighting up before looking down at the list again. “Do you have an ashtray?”
    â€œI don’t smoke,” Maggie said pointedly, “but I’ll try and find you one.” She pressed the intercom button, hoping that Henny wouldn’t panic.
    It took a few minutes, but eventually Henny’s voice boomed, “What you want, Mrs. Maggie?”
    â€œHave we any ashtrays?”
    â€œWhy? Only Mr. Nat smoke.”
    â€œMy client needs one.”
    â€œOh!” Maggie could hear the disapproval. “I find something.”
    â€œAnd Henry Smith’s wife is Rosie. They come from London— Cockneys, I think they’re called—and she wears the most godawful clothes you’ve ever seen. Absolutely no taste whatever.” She flicked her ash onto the carpet just as Henny walked in carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and an extra white china saucer.
    â€œHere,” Henny said pointedly, placing the saucer next to Stella. “For ash. And here is coffee.”
    â€œUh . . . thanks.” Stella glanced back at the list. “Where was I?”
    â€œYou were describing Rosie Smith.”
    â€œThey own the Exotic Eastern Emporium on Pender.” Stella gave a derisive laugh. “It’s sort of an antique store. And their two sons were there, Job and Noah. A couple of thugs, if you ask me.” She took a drag before carrying on. “And the last name on the list is Liam Mahaffy. He’s not married and he’s into horses. You know,” she added seeing the confused look on Maggie’s face, “race horses. Has a stud farm out in Delta. Oodles of money. And he’s quite a dish.”
    â€œSo that makes nine men and five women.”
    â€œNo, just four women. Thelma Schaefer never comes to things like that,” she answered as she crushed out the cigarette. “And it only adds up to nine men if you count Maurice.”
    â€œHad you met any of them before?”
    â€œYeah, Maurice had us all come to an informative lunch, as he called it.” When Maggie looked puzzled, Stella continued, “You know the kind of thing—overcooked chicken and soggy rice and peas, projector with slides of the area, artist’s impression of how it will look when completed . . .”
    â€œYou knew Maurice and his wife socially, I take it?”
    She shook her head. “Robert knew him through business deals.”
    â€œWhat kind of deals?”
    Stella shrugged. “Robert never brings his business home,” she said evasively.
    â€œWere both the Schaefers at that lunch?”
    â€œJust Arnold. He was very loud and sceptical. Thelma’s a real saint to put up with him.”
    â€œDo you know if any of