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memo from Jack about my extraordinary baking skills. 
    “Apple rhubarb,” I inform her with a smile. “The crust is from a recipe handed down from my great-grandmother.” 
    Not really. I found it on Martha Stewart’s website. I’m guessing Babette knows Martha personally and has tasted pie made from the entertainment maven’s very own hands, since both of them own quaint little abodes in Westchester County, New York. 
    In fact, the Brecks own homes practically everywhere—New York, London, Paris, Lake Como, Rio de Janeiro, Gstaad, St. Tropez, St. Barts, St. Petersburg (Russia, not Florida)—all of which are fully staffed.
    Babette hands my pie over to the butler, then ushers us through a reception hall, to one of the estate’s living rooms. I kid you not, it’s got to be the size of the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. In fact…
    “Excuse me, this may be a silly question, but… well, is this room—?”
    Babette’s sigh is long and practiced. “Yes. An exact replica. Trust me, it was Jonah’s idea, not mine.” 
    She bends down slightly so that the slight heat of her tepid smile warms at least one of us: Trisha takes it as her cue to give a proper curtsey. 
    Note to self: no more episodes of Downton Abbey for my youngest. Maybe it’s time I read her Les Misérables. Or at least take her to see the musical.
    The sounds of whinnying and laughter come from the vast velvety lawn that stretches beyond the French doors and onto infinity. At the sight of Janie on a dappled Shetland pony—in jodhpurs, riding helmet and show coat, no less—Trisha’s manners take flight, and so does she, right out an open door.
    I shake my head in mock embarrassment. “Please forgive Trisha. She’s very excited about meeting Janie’s pony.” 
    “Not at all. Janie took to Trisha instantly. It’s a blessing, since we’re always on the move. Normally, she finds it so hard to make friends.” With this admission, sadness clouds her eyes.
    Our children give us a reason to look away. By now, Janie’s trainer has helped her off the pony. Eddie the dog, leashed and detained a hundred feet away by Acme’s undercover agent, Abu, jerks and jumps in frenzied frustration. Janie and Trisha hug each other, then Janie takes Trisha’s hand and places it gently, palm up on the pony’s nose. When the pony snorts and shakes its head, both girls giggle and run off to the stable just beyond the house.
    Eddie yanks free from Abu and runs after them. Thank goodness Abu’s curses are muttered in some ancient Punjabi dialect. I’ll bet, right about now, he wishes he were wrangling with some eight-year-old over the price of an ice cream sandwich instead of chasing Eddie around the yard.
    “Feel free to leave Trisha for the afternoon,” Babette offers. “In fact, may she join us for dinner and perhaps a sleepover? She and Janie can eat in the playroom with Antoinette, Janie’s au pair. She’ll bathe them, and Trisha can borrow a pair of her pajamas. Janie is bored to death at our formal dinner parties. I’ll let you in on a little secret: I am, too.” 
    This time Babette’s smile seems genuine.
    I wish I could feel sorry for her, but I’m sure living in a miniature version of Versailles compensates for a lot.
    Babette stops short, as if something has just crossed her mind. “Your husband mentioned he’ll be attending Jonah’s disarmament summit. Perhaps you and Carl would like to join us for dinner tonight as well?”
    It’s my turn to fake a smile. “That would be nice. We look forward to it.”
    Ryan is going to break out in a happy dance when he hears Jack and I will be in Lion’s Lair sooner than expected. This gives Acme another shot at finding the source for Breck’s security feed before the summit. Thus far, the only thing Arnie has been able to determine via the estate’s architectural plans is that the hub is somewhere in the vicinity of Breck’s office wing, which has been off-limits to Arnie, since Breck doesn’t