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sake, get a move on.”
    â€œRight with you.” Her voice, breathy and musical, floated down the stairs of their home, a structure that once had been the carriage house of Latham Manor. A moment later she rushed into the living room, still fastening an earring.
    â€œI was reading to Mrs. Patterson,” she said. “You know how it is, William. She’s not used to the residence yet, and she resents the fact that her son sold her house out from under her.”
    â€œShe’ll settle in,” Lane said dismissively. “Everyone else seems to have managed to end up being quite happy here.”
    â€œI know, but it sometimes takes a while. I still say a little TLC while a new guest is adjusting is important.” Odile walked to the mirror over the carved marble fireplace. “How do I look?” She smiled at her wide-eyed, blond-haired reflection.
    â€œYou look lovely. You always do,” Lane said shortly. “What do you know about this stepdaughter of Nuala’s?”
    â€œNuala told me all about her when she visited Greta Shipley last Monday. Her name is Maggie, and Nuala was married to her father years ago. She’s going to stay for two weeks. Nuala seems very happy about it. Don’t you think that’s sweet, that they met each other again?”
    Without answering, Dr. Lane opened the front door, then stood aside. You’re in a great mood, Odile thought, as she walked past him and down the steps to the car. For a moment she paused and looked at Latham Manor, its marble façade glistening in the moonlight.
    Hesitantly she suggested, “I meant to tell you that when I looked in on Mrs. Hammond, she was a bit out of breathand rather pale. I wonder if you should check her before we go.”
    â€œWe’re late already,” Dr. Lane replied impatiently as he opened the car door. “If I’m needed I can be back in ten minutes, but I can assure you that Mrs. Hammond will be all right tonight.”

7
    M ALCOLM N ORTON WAS NOT LOOKING FORWARD TO THE evening. A silver-haired man with an erect, military posture, he made an imposing appearance. It was an appearance, however, that concealed a troubled mind.
    Nuala’s call three days ago, asking him to come to dinner tonight and meet her stepdaughter, had been a shock—not the invitation to dinner itself, but the unexpected news that Nuala had a stepdaughter.
    A lawyer with a general practice, working alone, Norton had seen his client list reduced drastically in the past few years, partly through attrition—he had become almost expert at handling estates of the deceased—but also due, he was certain, to the arrival of several young, aggressive lawyers in the area.
    Nuala Moore was one of his few remaining clients, and he thought he knew her affairs inside out. Never once had she mentioned this stepdaughter.
    For some time Malcolm Norton had been quietly urging Nuala to sell her home and become a resident of Latham Manor. Until recently she had shown signs of agreeing thatit would be a good move. She admitted that since her husband, Tim, had died, the house was lonely, and it was beginning to cost more and more in repairs. “I know it needs a new roof, that the heating system is antiquated, and anyone who bought it would want to put in central air-conditioning,” she had told him. “Do you think I could get two hundred thousand for it?”
    He had reacted carefully, responding, “Nuala, the real estate market here falls apart after Labor Day. Maybe next summer we’d get that much. But I want to see you settled. If you’re ready to move to Latham now, I’ll take the house off your hands for that price and do some basic fixing up. I’ll get my money back eventually, and you won’t have any more expenditures on it. With Tim’s insurance money and the house sale, you could have the best accommodation at Latham, maybe even turn one room of a suite into a studio