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fortune, and that fortune had been made a generation or two later in overseas shipping, then multiplied through savvy real estate deals and influence wielding. Putnams had served in almost every political office in the Commonwealth, and Brad’s grandfather, John Putnam, had been an influential U.S. senator when moderate Republicans could still get elected in Massachusetts. His career had crossed paths with a far more famous Boston pol, Senator Patrick “Paddy” Sheehan, whose family name had become synonymous with politics in the city.
    Sheehan came from a family of Irish immigrants who had risen to prominence in the city, and it was when his youngest daughter, Kitty, had fallen in love with Andrew Putnam, the youngest son of his Republican rival, that the two families were forever melded. Andrew and Kitty Putnam had gone on to have five children. Brad was the second to youngest.
    Now that Toby said it, Sweeney did vaguely remember a tragic death. “I think I remember something,” she said. “What was it?”
    “Five years ago, Brad went to college, I think. They were down at the family house in Newport and there was a car accident. Brad’s younger brother Petey died in the crash. All of the Putnam kids were in the car but they never told anybody who had been driving. The police up in Newport tried for months to get them to talk, but they all claimed that they’d been knocked out and couldn’t remember anything. The assumption was that whoever had been driving was drunk and they were covering it up, but the Putnams threw their weight around and the case was closed eventually.”
    Sweeney ate her chicken slowly, thinking.
    “So what do the police want from you?” Toby asked.
    “I don’t know. They said they might call me to help with the jewelry some more. I think they have this theory about a ritual killer.”
    He was quiet for a few minutes.
    “What?” Sweeney asked him.
    “I don’t know. I was just thinking about Brad.”
    “What about him?” The images flashed up before Sweeney again. Those eyes.
    “Just that I thought once he seemed like the kind of person who I could imagine getting himself killed. Do you know what I mean?”
    “Yeah. It was like he’d given up. Not on the things he did every day, but on the big stuff.”
    “He was what, sixteen, when his brother died? That must have been pretty traumatic. Maybe that’s what it was.”
    “Yeah,” Sweeney said. But she didn’t feel convinced.
    While Toby did the dishes, Sweeney pressed play on her answering machine and heard the voice of Katie Swift, a friend from college. Katie hadn’t received Sweeney’s RSVP card . . . maybe it had gotten lost in the mail . . . she just wanted to check . . . she was so hoping that Sweeney would be coming.
    RSVP card?
    “Did you forget to RSVP?” Toby called from the kitchen. “That’s so rude. You’re going, right?”
    “Shit!” Sweeney brushed past him and started searching through the mess of stuff on her refrigerator.
    It was covered with pieces of paper—parking tickets, invitations, and other assorted summonses—and, behind a picture of another college friend’s new baby, a surprised-looking, very new baby girl named Hester, Sweeney found the tasteful ecru card informing her that Mr. and Mrs. Donald Swift requested the honor of her company at the wedding of Katherine Marie Swift and Milan Simic in Newport in two weeks’ time.
    “I completely forgot,” she said.
    “You’re going, though, aren’t you?”
    “I don’t know. It’s Newport . . . ”
    He turned to look at her. “When was the last time you were down there?”
    “Five years ago. My grandmother’s funeral. Before I left for Oxford.”
    “Really, you haven’t been down since then?”
    “No. And I don’t really want to go now.” She took a plate from him and dried it with the hem of her sweatshirt, then put it away.
    “But it’s Katie.”
    “I know, I should go, shouldn’t I? If I do, can I be your date? I