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folded across her ample bosom. She tapped her sensibly shod foot impatiently against the golden oak floor and glared at me like a cranky principal about to hand out a tardy. The tiny pink note she held between two fingers completed the image to perfection. “And what was all the fuss about?” she demanded, pointing toward the first floor.
    “Wow,” I said. “That was fast, even for you. You need to let me in on your secret.”
    Unappreciative as usual of my humor, she sniffed. “The Mister stopped by. Told me to tell you that he was headed back up to his rooms. He also said to tell you that as soon as the fuss started, Hillary took off like a shot.” Frances’s eyes narrowed. “The Mister thinks she’s behind all these thefts, doesn’t he?”
    I didn’t answer. Hillary’s innocence or guilt would be proved by facts, not by gossiping behind her back. Pointing to the pink slip of paper Frances held, I asked, “Is that for me?”
    She extended her arm, presenting it high, near my face. “Some woman you know who works at the Kane Estate in California. She called. Sounded important.”
    “Nadia?” I said, grabbing the note to read it. Not much information. Her name, number, and Frances’s scribbled, “CALL ASAP.”
    I must have frowned because my assistant was quick to pounce. “I know you
prefer
e-mails instead of notes written on paper, but like I told you before, we’ve got a crate of these ‘While You Were Out’ forms, and if we don’t use them they’ll go into the garbage. Is that what you want, for me to waste the Mister’s money?”
    I counted to five silently as she ranted, reminding myself that Frances protected Bennett as though it were her solemn duty. What she didn’t understand is that I shared that responsibility. My assistant was doing her job the best way she knew how. I only wished she’d learn to converse rather than confront.
    “This note is fine,” I said. “Did Nadia tell you what it was about?”
    “If she had, don’t you think I would have written it down?”
    I made my way to my office, tapping the paper thoughtfully. Nadia and I had met years ago, when I was a grad student and she a tenured professor. Despite the age gap, we’d forged an enduring friendship and shared a love of all things historical. She’d retired from teaching last year and had taken an assistant curator position on the West Coast in one of the finest homes in the country: the Kane Estate. She and I kept in touch via e-mail and snail mail because Nadia refused to own a cell phone, claiming that at her age she didn’t need to be available every minute of every day. In her mid-eighties, the woman was fit, spry, and perennially cheerful. She was as opposite Frances as a person could get. It was very odd for Nadia to call, and I wondered what was up.
    I sat at my desk and picked up the phone, talking to myself. “I hope she’s okay.”
    Frances shouted from the other room. “She sounded fine.”
    I put the receiver down, got up, and went to the doorway that separated our offices. “Thanks,” I said to my assistant. Then I shut the door.
    Back at my desk, I dialed Nadia at work. She answered on the first ring.
    “Grace,” she said, with such joy in her voice I was immediately warmed. “I’m glad you got back to me so quickly.”
    “It’s great to hear from you.” Nadia’s voice was strong, her tone upbeat. Relief surged over me. “But I have to tell you, I was a little concerned when I read the message. It says to call you back ASAP.”
    “Then your assistant did her job,” she said. “What a charming woman. She asked me all about you and how you and I knew each other.”
    I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Did she?”
    “It sounds as though you’ve had your share of trouble at Marshfield over the past few months. I remember you e-mailing some of the story, but I didn’t realize how close you’d come to getting hurt.”
    “Frances exaggerates.”
    “I’m not so sure about that.