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don’t you?”
    Scott and Bruce exchanged a glance before Scott went on. “Your assistant, Frances, has been in on this from the beginning and you know what a gossip she is.”
    â€œShe promised,” I said.
    â€œWhat about Hillary?” Bruce asked.
    â€œHillary has to be kept in the loop,” I said. “And as Bennett’s stepdaughter it’s in her own best interests to keep this quiet. If it turns out that I am related to Bennett—”
    â€œAs we all know you are,” Bruce said.
    â€œ
If
I am,” I continued, “that knocks Hillary down a peg, at least in the public’s eye. No, she won’t say anything.”
    They exchanged another glance.
    â€œWhat?” I asked. “Why do I get the feeling that the two of you are hiding something from me?”
    Scott gave his partner the “Why not?” look, and Bruce laid down his newspaper to look me straight in the eye. “We overheard a conversation between a couple of patrons during a tasting last night.”
    I sat up straighter. “Who was it? What did they say?”
    â€œWe don’t know them,” he said. “Not by name, at least. They’ve been in a few times. It seems the trip you and Bennett took to the lab, as well as your celebratory luncheon afterward, didn’t go unnoticed. Tongues are wagging and there’s speculation about what’s really going on.”
    â€œWe’re pretty sure they wanted us to overhear their conversation,” Scott said, “because they know we all live together.”
    â€œWhat do they think is going on?”
    The corner of Scott’s mouth twisted upward. “There are a couple of theories out there, but the front-runner is that you and Bennett are planning to get married and all these tests are to rule out social disease.”
    Laughter burst out of me so quickly that I was glad I hadn’t just swigged a mouthful of coffee. “Are you kidding me?”
    Bruce sobered instantly. “The thing is, Grace, the temptation to correct them is real. Scott and I won’t to say a word because we have your best interests at heart. But what happens when Hillary, or Frances, or Tooney is confronted? Will they be able to hold back?”
    Bootsie howled, interrupting us. Alert and on her feet now, though still perched on the sill, she stared out the back window. Her black-and-white face moved side to side, as though tracking a large animal.
    Bruce’s question lingered in the air as I got up to see what held the little cat’s attention. The moment I rose, however, Bootsie bounced off the ledge to stare at the back door.
    â€œMaybe that FBI guy showed up after all,” Scott said.
    Our back bell rang. One second later came an extended and forceful knock.
    Before answering I parted the curtains to check to see who it was.
    â€œFlynn?” My voice went high with surprise as I grasped the knob and pulled the door open.
    The young detective seemed as shocked by my quick answer as I was to see him in my backyard. He wore a simple black jacket with its collar turned up against the cold and a navy blue knit hat over his bald head. Clouds of breath poured out of him. I got the impression he’d jogged his way over.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” I asked.
    Wiry and perpetually impatient, Flynn took time to scowl before answering. “This isn’t a social call, I can tell you that much.”
    Bootsie jumped onto the countertop nearest the door to get a better look. I took her in my arms, unlatched the outer door, and pushed it toward him. “Come on in. Would you like coffee?”
    Flynn eyed my seated roommates, offered a perfunctory greeting, and sniffed the air. “If it’s made.”
    Scott took Bootsie, freeing me to pour Flynn a steamingmug. As I handed it to him I noticed his hands were bare and red-chapped with cold. “What’s going on?” I asked.
    â€œHave a seat,” Bruce