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keep a horribly messy desk, but never leave a light on, a quirky combination for certain. The light was on; he was in the study.”
    “We know Chris died in the apartment in DC,” Jack said gently. “But this was his home. Could Nora look around inside while you and I visit out here?”
    Sarah smiled at Nora. “You go right in, dear. Look wherever you wish.”
    “Thank you.” Nora scooted back her chair, taking care to push it in level with the table. “Did your husband keep an appointment book at home? Oh, and do you have a safe?”
    “We do not have a safe. The police took his appointment book. Chief Mandrake brought it back personally after Suggs closed the case. You’ll find it in the study on the desk.”
    “Did you discuss the case with Chief Mandrake?” Jack asked. “Perhaps tell him about your belief that Chris had been blackmailed?”
    “Oh, Nora,” Sarah called out just as the younger woman stepped inside. “I unlocked the file cabinet and removed the password on his laptop. You take it, dear. I have no use for it. It may help you.”
    Sarah turned back to Jack. “I did not discuss the case with the chief. We had some iced tea and talked about the good old days. Before the chief’s wife died several years ago—the four of us had some grand times. It seems so long …” She stopped talking and her face went blank as if a light had flickered off behind her eyes.
    “May I have some more of that grand iced tea,” Jack asked, “and another of your little sandwiches?”
    “Certainly,” she said. “Let me pour.” She made no move for the pitcher, but jiggled her head, as if her wiring had shorted, then stared out toward her rose garden.
    “I’m terribly ignorant about flowers,” Jack said. “Will you show me your garden?”
    “I would like that. The roses are my pride and joy.”
    The garden’s brick walkway had been set directly into the soil. Sarah held Jack’s arm while stooping to pick up a rose petal wedged between two of the bricks. “It is such a challenge to keep all of this looking just so,” she said. Her yard was as immaculate as the home had been inside. The stars of her garden were four rows of alternating white, pink, red, and yellow roses.
    “That bright red one near the middle I took from my mother’s garden after she died ten years ago. She was eighty-one and had remained a lady in the regal sense of the word, right to the end. Christopher gave me all the other roses.”
    The air was filled with the sound of the bees busily darting about the vines that climbed trellises along the side of the detached garage. The blossoms they visited reminded Jack of the lilacs his mother had grown when he was young. After a while the brick walkway circled around to bring them back to the roses.
    “Christopher worked the soil to keep it aerated and treated the roses to control the aphids. I come out here sometimes and sit in that garden chair,” she pointed, “near our roses and remember him.”
    “Your roses are beautiful.”
    “You’re a sweet man, Jack, just like my Christopher.” She absentmindedly reached up and touched the wrinkles in her cheek as if they were play buttons for her memories.
    When they were again seated, Jack asked about Chris’s friends.
    “I listed them on the statement I gave you.” She patted the envelope on the table. “I included a brief history of his relationship with each and their addresses and phone numbers—the ones I know about.” She sniffled and dabbed her nose with her hanky. “Because of his work, Christopher often socialized without me. Those friends should be in his laptop.”
    “One thing I do know,” Jack said. “We’ll never have a client who is better organized or more cooperative.”
    Nora came out the back door. “You have a beautiful home, Sarah. I love your Early American furniture and your Persian rugs in the study and hallway.”
    “Thank you, dear. Do you have any questions?”
    Nora cleared her throat after briefly