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prim young woman in a jacket and skirt and very sensible heels said, "Good afternoon, my name's Ruth Langley. Is there anything I can help you with today or would you just care to have a look around ?"
    "Mr. Wickland's invited me to stop in for a personal tour of the gallery," he said. "The name's Raleigh Dibble."
    When she escorted him to Nigel Wickland's office, the art dealer stood up, came around his massive mahogany desk, and shook hands energetically.
    "So glad you came. You're just in time to come and have a drink with me," Nigel Wickland said, donning his linen blazer, the color of a martini olive.
    Raleigh figured the ascot must be for evenings in gay bars, because the art dealer was wearing a white shirt with a forest-green silk necktie. He made Raleigh feel shabby in his off-the-rack rusty brown sport jacket worn over chinos, with black leather loafers that needed the heels replaced.
    They went to the bar at the Ivy and took a table. Just as before, Nigel Wickland ordered a banana daiquiri, and a second one before he'd finished the first. In the light of day Raleigh could see that the art dealer's eyes were watery and there were broken veins on the sides of his nose. A juicehead for sure, he figured. Still, he was buying the drinks and Raleigh's curiosity was killing him, so he ordered a Jack on the rocks.
    After he was half finished with the second drink, Nigel Wickland said, "If you don't mind my asking, Raleigh, did you actually sell your catering business or ..."
    "It tanked," Raleigh said with a wry grin, starting to feel the Jack Daniel's already. "I got nothing out of it. So here I am, a domestic servant."
    "Hardly that," Nigel Wickland said. "I'm sure you're a valued employee to Julius. But I can't imagine that the pay is very good."
    "A living," Raleigh said. "Sort of. But the food's great because I buy and cook it for both of us. Mr. Hampton still has a young man's appetite." Raleigh drained the glass, and Nigel Wickland immediately signaled for another.
    "I'd like to rely on you to be discreet, Raleigh," the art dealer said. "I know you've been with Julius a relatively short time, but I might be able to offer you a better position."
    "With you?" Raleigh said. "I'm an art Neanderthal."
    "I don't mean in my gallery," Nigel Wickland said. "After meeting you the other night I realized that you have exactly the qualifications that a client of mine needs at this time. You heard Julius and me mention her name. Leona Brueger?"
    "I vaguely remember that," Raleigh said, getting into the second Jack, a delicious golden burn sliding down his throat and making him feel the glow coming on.
    "I've recently learned that Leona Brueger is deeply involved with Rudy Ressler, the filmmaker that Julius mentioned."
    "The child molester?" Raleigh said. "That's what Mr. Hampton called him."
    Nigel Wickland smiled and said, " He doesn't try to entice children with a kitten and chocolate bars, believe me. College coeds, his targets of choice, are not exactly children, even if they do behave that way. But Rudy's changing his ways and has been getting increasingly serious about mature women, especially the widow Brueger."
    "It sounds like you know them pretty well," Raleigh said.
    Nigel said, "I've come to know more than a little about Leona Brueger after having been contacted to appraise the late Sammy Brueger's formidable art collection. I've been led by her to believe that she's going to sell it all, along with the house, perhaps to marry Ressler and move to Napa, where she'll grow grapes or whatever people do when they have more money than good sense."
    "Nigel," Raleigh said finally, "this is all very interesting, but I don't see how I could possibly fit in here."
    Nigel said, "Leona Brueger has been saddled with Sammy's brother Marty, who is eighty-seven years old and ailing. Marty spends most of his time in Leona's guesthouse, but occasionally he likes to get out and about. She needs the services of a butler/driver/ companion