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the next morning he had found the stone in a box, ribbon-tied, at his front door.
    “That damned Finn!” Desmond Moore burst out angrily. Desmond was on his second drink. His cousin Winifred and her poetry editor friend Sheila were finishing their first.
    “That damned Finn!” Desmond repeated. “It’ll get about that there was a murder on my property. It’ll militate against people coming to visit my projected gardens.”
    “Quite the opposite, you fool!” Winifred said scornfully. “People love blood and gore.”
    “A fool, am I?” Desmond gave his cousin a baleful look. His eyes were bloodshot, had been bloodshot all day. He stared at Winifred with hatred. Then he smiled at her, a cold, mirthless drawing back of his teeth. “But I’m a rich fool, Winnie, keep that in mind. A fool who might even … marry.” He wet his lips, half-turned and smiled at Torrey, then looked back at Winifred, “So, Winnie, my dear cousin, don’t have any great expectations.”
    Winifred Moore took a gulp of her vodka. Luke saw her face redden, her usual good humor abruptly eclipsed like a light going out. Something like misery took its place—then, rage. He saw Sheila Flaxton quickly put a restraining hand on Winifred’s arm and shake her head in warning; but Winifred yanked her arm free.
    “I’d like to go to the airport,” Winifred said between gritted teeth, “and hire a small plane and fly it over all of Dublin County, trailing smoke that spelled out ‘Desmond Moore is an asshole.’”
    “Ahh,” Desmond said, still smiling. “Indeed?”
    “Indeed,” Winifred said, and threw her drink in Desmond’s face.
    *   *   *
    Desmond wiped drops of vodka from his chin. For a half minute he stood gazing at Winifred. Then he turned and walked with deliberate steps to the Florentine desk. He pressed an inlaid corner of the desk; there was a click, and he pulled open a narrow drawer. He took out an oblong maroon leather case and opened it to reveal a diamond necklace on a black velvet cushion. He held up the glittering necklace with a single emerald pendant.
    “Heavens!” An awed gasp from Sheila.
    Desmond turned to Torrey Tunet. “I’ve noticed a couple of times how much you admired the portrait of my grandmother wearing this necklace, the portrait on the staircase. The necklace is a family heirloom. I’d like you to wear it during dinner this evening. It would suit what you’re wearing. In fact, it suits you.” He went smiling to Torrey, stepped behind her, and clasped the necklace around her neck; his fingers lingered an instant longer on her nape, then slid away, caressingly, down her back.
    “But … No! ” Torrey said. She looked stunned. And—Luke had to give her that—stunning. Lightly tanned throat sparkling with diamonds down the V-necked red silk sweater, the emerald pendant between her breasts. He felt a sexual stirring; in helpless anger he warred against it.
    A small cough from the doorway. Rose, white-aproned, eyes downcast, announcing dinner.

13
    “The hell with her!” Desmond poured a Bordeaux into the Baccarat glasses. He felt excited, almost feverish. The green emerald between Torrey Tunet’s breasts caught the candlelight in the centerpiece of the dining table. They were sitting down to a dinner of grilled salmon with leek sauce and potatoes mashed with spring onions. There were just the three of them: he and Torrey Tunet and Luke Willinger. His cousin Winifred had strode from the castle snorting like a dragon, followed by her acolyte, Sheila Flaxton. They’d climbed into the Jeep and torn off to Dublin for dinner with “civilized creatures,” as Winifred had flung at him hoarsely in parting.
    “Gone to some leather-jacketed dyke hang-out, for Christ’s sake,” Desmond had said to Luke and Torrey.
    He felt the expensive weight of the Baccarat glass in his hand. He looked at the exquisite cut on the crystal. It signaled more than richness, more than luxury. It signaled authority.