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on one of the couches in the conversation pit. She beckoned, and I obeyed. Good boy! Now heel.
    “I’m having a vodka gimlet,” she said. “There’s a pitcher in the fridge. Would you like one?”
    I considered this invitation for a long time—possibly three seconds. “Yes,” I said, “thank you.”
    It was an excellent gimlet, not so tart that it puckered one’s lips but sharp and energizing. Mrs. Hawkin patted the cushion beside her and I obediently took my place. Good boy! Now sit up and beg.
    “How did you make out with Si?” she inquired lazily, her drawl obviously an attempt to conceal a real curiosity.
    “Fine,” I said. “I only had a few questions. Your husband was very cooperative.”
    “He was?” she said, mildly astonished. “Questions about what?”
    “Whom,” I said. “A mutual acquaintance.” I hoped she wouldn’t push it. She didn’t.
    “You’re a lawyer?” she asked suddenly.
    “No, ma’am,” I said. “My father is an attorney but I am not.”
    “Does he do divorce work? A friend of mine is looking for a good divorce lawyer and asked if I could recommend someone.”
    “Sorry,” I said. “McNally and Son doesn’t handle divorces. But if you like, I can ask my father. I’m sure he can suggest someone who would be willing to talk to your friend. Shall I do that?”
    “Yes. Let me know as soon as possible.”
    “Of course,” I said.
    She sipped her gimlet, stared at the high ceiling, and ignored me. Good boy! Now lie down and play dead.
    She was a heavy-bodied woman with an attractive mastiff face: very strong, very determined. I decided I would rather have her for a friend than an enemy. That may sound simple, but there are some people, men and women, of whom you are instinctively wary, knowing they could be trouble.
    I finished my drink, rose, and expressed thanks for her hospitality. She gazed at me thoughtfully but made no reply. So I slunk away, grateful to be out of her presence. I can’t explain exactly why. Just that I was conscious of a very deep anger there with which I could not cope, and had no desire to.
    I retraced my route and entered the main house through the door to the Florida room. I could have circled around and reclaimed my Miata on the bricked driveway, but I wanted to learn the name of the pleasant, chirpy-voiced maid who had ushered me in.
    Instead, I found Marcia Hawkin wandering about, hugging her elbows. I was about to bid her a polite farewell when she accosted me—and accosted is a mild word for her attitude. She was in my face.
    “Did you go to daddy’s show last night?” she demanded.
    “Why, yes, Miss Hawkin,” I said as softly as I could. “I did attend the exhibit.”
    “It was a circus, wasn’t it?” she challenged. “A bloody circus.”
    “Not really,” I said cautiously. “Not much different from a hundred other similar affairs.”
    “And I suppose she was there,” she said bitterly.
    Complete confusion. Did she mean Mrs. Hawkin or the cynosure of the evening?
    “ She ?” I repeated. “Your stepmother or Theodosia Johnson?”
    “You know who I mean,” she said darkly. “The whore !”
    That was rough stuff that not only shocked but left me as flummoxed as before. To whom was she referring? All I could do at the moment was stare at her, utterly bewildered.
    I cannot say she was an unattractive woman. Quite young. Tall and attenuated. But there was a brittleness about her I found a mite off-putting. She seemed assembled of piano wire and glass, ready to snap or shatter at any moment.
    She stalked away from me and stood staring through an open window at her father’s studio. I judged it would be wise to make a quiet and unobtrusive exit. To tell you the truth, I had enough of naked human passions for one morning. I felt like I had been wrung out hard and hung up wet. I murmured a courteous goodbye and slipped away. I don’t believe she was even aware of my going.
    I loitered in the entrance hallway a moment, hoping