LITMIR.BIZ

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reach the house, but that could have been the fault of the golf cart, which was ascending at a particularly slow rate. Finally there was a clearing of newly sod lawn and surgical landscaping, hedges trimmed to a precise ninety-degree edge, and symmetrical flower beds of deep jewel hues of pansies and primroses.

      Every queen has her castle, and Sabrina’s three-story stone Tudor estate came complete with mullioned windows and a turret. The cart stopped, and two uniformed valets came rushing over to open the car doors.

      Marge and Oliver stepped out of the car. She said, “Do I need a ticket?”

      The valet stared at her. Another giant of a man answered in the valet’s stead. “No, you don’t need a ticket. I’ll escort you inside.” He held out a hand. “Leo Delacroix.”

      “Like the artist?” Marge asked.

      “Same spelling. No relation.” His touch for a big man was surprisingly light. “This way. You’re right on time. Ms. Talbot is a stickler for punctuality.”

      “Then we have a lot in common.” Marge looked around as they walked to a two-story iron front door. “Although we probably have a lot more not in common.”

      Delacroix’s face remained stony. He pressed a button, and the full chorus of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” resonated through speakers. The doors split and a third guard took over. He was young, white, and muscular with a thick neck and a military buzz cut for hair. He introduced himself as Thor Weillsohn, leading them down a marble hallway into a reception room, modest in size but not in ornamentation. The furniture was all-white curlicue legs and backs, upholstered in jacquard blue silk. Persian rugs lay over a parquet walnut floor, and tapestries hung from white paneled walls. Angels and cherubs hovered above in a sky filled with puffy clouds.

      “Ms. Talbot will be with you in a minute,” Thor told them. He left, closing two white paneled doors behind him. Both of them remained standing, neither wanting to park a butt on something that was breakable and/or priceless. Oliver let out a low whistle.

      Marge said, “I guess Hobart gave her a decent settlement.”

      “How old is this woman?”

      “In her fifties. She was in her twenties when she married him.”

      “She did well.”

      Another minute passed, and then the doors opened. This time it was a uniformed maid carrying a tea and coffee service, three cups and saucers, and a plate of cookies. “Please have a seat on the divan.”

      Marge and Oliver looked at each other and sat down simultaneously on what they thought was the divan. It wasn’t padded much and was ramrod stiff on the back.

      The housekeeper said, “May I pour for you?”

      “Thank you,” Marge said. “That would be lovely.”

      “Tea or coffee?”

      “Coffee. Just milk.”

      “Same for me,” Oliver said. “Thank you.”

      She set the service down on a table and poured in silence. Then she passed around the cookie tray. They each took one out of politeness and placed it on the saucer. The maid put the cookie plate and napkins on a coffee table, and then she left.

      “This is all good stuff,” Oliver said. “Do you think if I turned on enough charm, Ms. Talbot might give me a roll in the hay?”

      “No.”

      “Don’t be too vague, Dunn. Tell me what you really think.”

      “I like this lemon bar. If I didn’t think I was being watched, I’d sneak a few up in a paper napkin and hide them in my purse.”

      Oliver laughed. Five more minutes passed and then a rush of wind burst through the doors. The detectives stood up.

      The woman was a presence: over six feet with broad shoulders, slim hips, and a mane of blond hair. She had blue eyes, high cheekbones, and pale skin. There was spiderwebbing at the corners of the eyes and mouth, but none of that shiny stretched skin common to plastic surgery. She was dressed in a dirty shirt and gardening pants, a floppy hat on her head. She tossed the chapeau on the French furniture.

      “Gawd, I’m a mess.” She checked her hands then offered them to Marge and Oliver. “Sabrina Talbot. Sorry about the dirty fingernails. Even with gloves, I lunched my French manicure. Nails and gardening don’t mix.” She brushed off her pants, bits of dirt falling on the Persian rug, and then sat down on a chair. “Sit, sit. And don’t worry if you spill. I reupholster the furniture every two years. It’s about that time. I’m thinking of going deco. I was in my ‘ice’ phase when I did this room. Now it reminds me of an igloo. Sit, sit.”

      The detectives sat, introduced themselves with each of them giving her a card.

      “I know that you’re here about Hobart.” A single tear down the cheek. “Who would want to harm an eccentric old man?”

      “So you know he was murdered,” Marge said.

      “Gracie phoned me last night. It was a brief conversation, and she was also short on the details. I’m hoping you can fill me in on what happened.”

      “Gracie is Graciela Johannesbourgh?” Marge asked.

      “Yes.”

      “So you’re still in contact with Mr. Penny’s daughter.”

      “Gracie and I have become friends—mostly out of our concern for Hobart’s mental health. Over the years, he’d become increasingly odd. Now I’m not immune to eccentricity. My entire maternal half lives in a series of tiny English villages, each one more quirky than the next. But with Hobart, it had crossed the line from different to problematic.”

      Marge had taken out her notebook. “How’s that?”

      “We met when I was young. I was immediately taken with him. He was a very vital man. He reminded me of my father, so I understood men like Hobart very well.”

      “What do you mean ‘men like Hobart’?”

      “You know, these hypermacho males always trying to prove to themselves that they’re Ernest Hemingway’s successor—running with the bulls at Pamplona, mountain climbing in Nepal, navigating an uncharted river in the Amazon. Men like that are well understood in my circles.”

      “What are your circles?” Oliver asked.

      “You mean you didn’t Google me?” She stared at him with mock offense.

      “I looked you up,” Marge said. “All it mentioned was that you were the former wife of Hobart Penny.”

      “Then I’ve done my job well,” Sabrina said. “My parents believed that you should be in the news for birth, marriage, and death. I suppose divorce now is acceptable, but that’s it. Let me give you a little family history. My great-great-grandfather was Jacob Remington—as in Remington aircraft. My mother was a Remington. My father was an Eldinger on his mother’s side. If you look up the families, you’ll see that I come from old, old money. We’re the old-fashioned snooty WASPs. My parents were thrilled when I married Hobart … that someone wasn’t going to fleece me. Not that they needed to worry.” She pointed to her head. “I know where every dollar goes. Meticulous is my guideline. Hobart liked that about me. That I wasn’t just arm candy. Even with my pedigree and my looks and my brains, it took Hobart five years to propose. It probably had to do with his divorce from his first wife and my age. We met when I was nineteen.”

      “Was Hobart’s divorce a messy one?” Marge asked.

      “Not terribly messy, but there was no love lost. I was not the cause of the breakup. Hobart always had other women. And he was always odd, the stereotypical mad inventor. Not the most socially adroit. I think number one wife had had enough of him.”

      Oliver flipped over a notebook page. “How did you two meet?”

      “At

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