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And she had taken maternal pride in both. Amy was a certified genius, and while Matt wasn’t as smart, he had graduated summa cum laude from Pennsylvania. And she knew that her husband was a very good lawyer, and Amy a highly regarded psychiatrist, and Matt was carrying his father’s sergeant’s badge.

But knowing that hadn’t prepared her for sitting with them and listening to them speak of this unspeakable crime, and the man who had committed it, and his motivations, and the legal aspects of the whole sordid series of events as professionals, rather than father and son and daughter.

And it wasn’t just an idle conversation. They had been at it over an hour, ever since Brewster’s sedate black Cadillac had unexpectedly led Amy’s battered Suburban and Matt’s unmarked police Ford into the drive. When he had called from the Flatspin Restaurant where they had had lunch, she had asked what the chances were of having “the children” home for supper. He had said he’d see. From his tone of voice, it had seemed unlikely.

But then they’d appeared, surprising and pleasing her. Brewster had said Matt couldn’t come for supper, he had to be with Stan Colt, so they’d come now. They’d immediately gone out to the patio, arranged themselves on the comfortably upholstered lawn furniture, and started talking about Homer C. Daniels.

Without being asked, Mrs. Newman, the Payne house-keeper-a comfortable looking gray-haired woman in her fifties-had produced a pot of coffee and a tray with toasted rye bread, liverwurst, mustard, and sliced raw onions, and then taken a chair by the door. Patricia was pleased to see Mrs. Newman was as fascinated with Mr. Homer C. Daniels as she was.

And then the phone rang, and Patricia didn’t want to talk to anyone, and said as much.

“Grab that, please, Elizabeth,” she called. “And get rid of whoever it is. I’ll call them back.”

Mrs. Newman took her walk-around telephone from a pocket in her dress and spoke into it. Then she got up and walked to them.

“Mrs. Nesbitt for Mr. Payne,” she said. “She won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Damn!” Brewster C. Payne, Esq., said.

“Not you,” Mrs. Newman said. “Young Mrs. Nesbitt for Young Mr. Payne.”

“Shit,” Young Mr. Payne said.

“Matty!” his mother said.

Mrs. Newman handed him the phone.

“And how is the somewhat careless caretaker of my god-daughter? ”

“God, you’re such an asshole, Matt…” Daffy Nesbitt said.

“Thank you for sharing that with me. I’ll tell Mother what you said.”

“… but despite that, I’m going to do you a favor.”

“Oh, God!”

“I probably really shouldn’t tell you this, but Chad said I should.”

“You’re in the family way again?”

“No, goddamn it!”

“Can we get to the point of this fascinating conversation, please?”

“We’re having a few people in here before we make an appearance at the Four Seasons thing,” Daffy said.

“What people?” Matt asked.

“Old friends of ours, of yo

urs,” Chad said.

“And I want you to show up in black tie and spare us your usual bad manners,” Daffy said.

“What’s in it for me?”

“Terry,” Chad Nesbitt chimed in.