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mean”—I was stammering “I mean, familiar! You look familiar. I read an article about you in Business Week , Mr. Ainsley. I should have recognized you from your pictures.”
    Now he was the one who seemed surprised. “You read Business Week?” He kept holding my hand.
    “I have a degree in accounting. Someday I’ll take that CPA exam.”
    “Don’t want to spend your whole life behind the bar? Good fer yew! And many thanks.” He squeezed my hand, grinned again and moved toward the kitchen.
    Well, this might turn out to be an interesting party. Duncan Ainsley! Investments weren’t my specialty, but the things I’d read about him sounded fascinating. Colorful Texan famous for his parties. Investment counselor to stars of stage and screen. And apparently to Clementine Ripley, too. No wonder she could afford the house at Warner Point.
    Now I understood his accent. If Duncan Ainsley was operating out of Dallas or Houston, he’d try to sound like he’d been to Harvard. Since he was a Texan operating out of Chicago, he used his Texas talk to make himself stand out from the crowd of Harvard MBAs. The thought of Duncan Ainsley kept me pepped up while I sliced the lemons and limes, then put olives and cherries in little dishes on the bar.
    In a minute I scented Jason’s spicy cologne, and I looked up to see him walking toward me. Then there was a flash of white fluff, and Jason screeched as he was attacked by a giant ball of fur.
    Champion Myanmar Chocolate Yonkers had jumped down, apparently from the balcony, and landed on Jason’s shoulder, barely missing the long queue. Using Jason as a springboard, he bounced on over to the bar.
    It was hilarious, but I tried not to laugh. Jason didn’t look amused, for one thing, and for another, the cat was now reaching a languorous paw out toward the dish I had just filled with olives.
    “Oh, no!” I said. “Those are not for cats. Even gorgeous champion chocolate cats.” And I grabbed.
    I guess Champion Yonkers didn’t expect to be denied his little treat. Anyway, he didn’t dodge in time, and I was able to scoop him up. He gave a low snarl, and he kicked, but I had him.
    “Into the office with you, fella,” I said. “If I only knew where it was.”
    I carried the enormous cat out from behind the bar and started looking. I assumed Ms. McCoy had meant the office I had visited earlier that day, somewhere at the east end of the house. So I went past the kitchen and into a hall that seemed to lead in the right direction. At least I’d get to see a few more rooms of the house.
    Almost immediately I found myself in a covered corridor, maybe forty feet long, with windows on both sides and a room at the far end. A parabola? Pergola? I was a little hazy on the name of this architectural feature. I was beginning to figure out that the house wasn’t really one big building. It was a series of little buildings strung together. I’d heard a couple of people call it “the village,” and that name was close to the feel of the thing. The tower—the “sore thumb”—was a sort of village church steeple.
    As I entered the room at the end of the passageway, I called out, “Ms. McCoy!” She didn’t answer.
    This was obviously not one of the public areas of the house. It was too pleasant and homey, with some comfortable-looking chairs and a couch covered in a nubby fabric in front of a rustic-looking fireplace. The color scheme was still severe, but it had texture. I could remember my Dallas decorator talking about “texture.” Texture is good.
    “Ms. McCoy?” Still no answer.
    I was sure the office had been at this end of the house. I spotted a hall with doors on either side of it. I opened one and peeked through. “Ha!” It was the utility room I had gone through when Ms. McCoy showed me out. That meant that the room on the left should be the office.
    I knocked at the door. No answer there, either. Champion Yonkers yowled and kicked.
    “Sorry, Champ,” I said. “I