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advocate.”
    “Bastard.”
    “Synonyms for sure,” Beck said with a wry smile. “He’s written us a letter. A copy of it is in the folder. I need to know how you want me to respond. It’s not urgent business, but it needs to be addressed, so don’t wait too long to give it a look.”
    Together they moved toward the door. “Is he good, this Nielson?”
    Beck hesitated, and when Huff picked up on it, he made a hand gesture that said, “Give it to me.” “He’s building a reputation in other parts of the country,” Beck said. “But we can handle him.”
    Huff slapped him on the back. “I have every confidence in you. Whoever the son of a bitch is, or thinks he is, he’ll be a flyspeck when you get through with him.”
    He opened the den door. Across the wide hallway they could see into the informal parlor, which Laurel had designated a conservatory because of its expansive windows. She had filled it with ferns, orchids, violets, and other tropical plants. The room had been her pride and joy, as well as that of the Destiny Garden Club, of which she had been president for several consecutive years.
    After she died, Huff had hired an indoor plant service in New Orleans to come to Destiny once a week to tend the plants. He paid them a hefty retainer but had also threatened them with a lawsuit if the plants died. The room remained the prettiest one in the house, also the most infrequently used. The men who lived there seldom went into it.
    It was presently occupied, however. Sayre was seated at the baby grand piano, her back to them, her head bent over the keyboard.
    “Can you get her to speak to me, Beck?”
    “I could barely get her to speak to me. ”
    Huff nudged him forward. “Use your powers of persuasion.”

Chapter Four
    “D o you play?”
    Sayre turned. Beck Merchant strolled into the room, his hands in his pants pockets. When he reached the end of the piano bench, he acted as though he expected her to scoot over and make room for him. She didn’t respond to the hint and, instead, remained firmly fixed.
    “I’m curious, Mr. Merchant.”
    “So am I. I’m curious to know why you don’t call me Beck.”
    “How did Huff know I was at the funeral? Did he get advance notice that I was coming?”
    “He hoped you’d come but had no guarantee that you would. All of us were on the lookout for you.”
    “In the church, neither he nor Chris gave any indication they knew I was there.”
    “They knew.”
    “Something in the air?”
    “Something like that, I guess. Bloodline vibes.” He paused as though waiting for her to laugh. When she didn’t, he said, “Realistically, did you think the dark sunglasses and hat would conceal your identity?”
    “I knew there would be a crowd attending the funeral. I had hoped to get lost in it.”
    Again he paused before saying quietly, “I don’t think you could get lost in any crowd, Sayre.”
    The compliment was subtle, rife with insinuation and suggestiveness. She hadn’t invited, nor did she welcome, the flattery, so if he was expecting a simpering thank-you, he was in for a disappointment.
    “If you hadn’t worn the hat, Huff and Chris would have spotted you immediately,” he said. “I would have, and I don’t even know you.”
    Her hat had begun to give her a headache, so she had removed it. She’d also unclasped her hair and let it hang free. The humidity had encouraged the natural curl that she controlled every morning with her blow dryer and straightening device. When she’d happened to catch her reflection in a hallway mirror a short while ago, she’d noted that her hair had reverted to the disobedient mane it had been in her youth.
    The sunlight streaming through the tall windows of her mother’s conservatory was catching each strand and setting it ablaze. The manner in which Beck Merchant was watching the play of sunlight on her hair made her wish for shade.
    She also didn’t like having to tilt her head back in order to look up at him. The