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alternative was to address his belt buckle. Either way, she was at a distinct disadvantage. With the intention of leaving, she slid toward the end of the bench. “Excuse me.”
    “Interesting name.”
    She stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. “Pardon?”
    “Sayre. Who named you that?”
    “My mother.”
    “Family name?”
    “Her paternal grandmother.”
    “I like it.”
    “Thank you. So do I.”
    “For the longest time, after I came to work for your family, I wasn’t sure how it was pronounced.”
    “Like it’s spelled.”
    “Wouldn’t that be S-a-y- e-r instead of r-e?”
    “Does it really matter?”
    “Obviously not.”
    She made to leave again, but he forestalled her. “You didn’t answer my original question, Sayre with an r-e. ”
    This time, she swiveled all the way around to face him. “Are you trying to be cute?”
    “No, only conversational. But I can’t seem to say a damn thing, no matter how inconsequential, that doesn’t irritate you. Why is that?”
    She released an audible sigh and folded her arms across her middle. “I don’t recall a question.”
    He nodded down at the piano. “Do you play?”
    “No, regrettably. Mother enrolled me in piano lessons when I was eight and mandated an hour of practice every day. ‘Because every young lady should know how to play a musical instrument,’ she said.”
    Sayre smiled at remembered reprimands for her failure to practice. “Mother tried to curb my wild streak but eventually gave up on me, declaring me a lost cause. Piano required musical talent and self-discipline, neither of which I had.”
    “Really?” He sat down beside her, crowding her, with his back to the keyboard so that they were sitting hip to thigh, and face-to-face. “You lack self-discipline?”
    “I did when I was eight,” she said, making her voice crisp. “I’ve cultivated some since then.”
    “I hope not at the expense of that wild streak. Restraint in a redhead would be a shameful waste of natural impulses.”
    She didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction, except to say, “You’re living up to my preconceptions of you. I would expect you to be insulting.”
    “Insulting? I was trying to pay you a compliment.”
    “Perhaps you should consult your dictionary.”
    “What for?”
    “The definition of a compliment.”
    She slid off the opposite end of the bench and strode across the room, making it only as far as the portiere that separated the conservatory from the central foyer, which was crowded with a group of people about to leave. Several of them paused to offer her a murmured expression of sympathy.
    In the midst of this group was Sheriff Red Harper. His face had grown longer and thinner in the past ten years, but she would have known him anywhere. Before he left, she saw him shake hands and exchange whispered words with Huff and Chris. Witnessing this hushed conversation reminded her of why she had returned to this house she had sworn never to enter again.
    Beck Merchant had moved up behind her. She sensed him standing close. Speaking softly, but loud enough for him to hear, she said, “Red Harper doubts that Danny’s death was a suicide?”
    “Let’s go outside.”
    He cupped her elbow, but as she turned to face him, she pulled it away. “Let’s stay here.”
    He looked annoyed at her rebuff but kept his voice low. “Are you sure you want to talk about this where we might be overheard?”
    Their long stare amounted to a war of wills, but eventually she left the room and headed toward the back of the house, trusting that he would follow her. As they moved through the kitchen, Selma, who was loading the dishwasher, asked if they’d had anything to eat yet.
    “I’ll get something later,” Sayre told her.
    “Same here,” Beck said.
    As they went through the back door, she called after them, “Y’all need to eat something. You need your strength.”
    Without having to think about her destination, Sayre walked across the manicured