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“Don Cletus, she loves you,” Enrico said, and then added, “And you know it.”

Frade lowered himself onto a leather-cushioned wicker armchair, crossed his battered Western boots on the matching footstool, bit the end from the cigar, and then lit it carefully with a wooden match. Then he picked up the wineglass and took a healthy sip.

Five minutes later, a glistening black 1940 Packard 160 convertible coupe drove through the windbreak of trees that surrounded the heart of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. Frade had been waiting for the Packard to appear. As soon as the car had left Estancia Santa Catalina on a road that led only to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, its presence had been reported to the big house by one of Frade’s peones.

Clete thought the Packard was gorgeous. It had been the top of the Packard line, except for limousines, and only a few—no more than two hundred—had been manufactured. Beneath its massive hood was the largest Packard Straight-Eight engine, which provided enough power for it to cruise effortlessly and endlessly at well over eighty miles an hour. It was upholstered in red leather and had white sidewall tires.

Each front fender carried a spare tire and wheel, and sitting on the front edge of the fenders was the latest thing in driving convenience: turn signals. With the flipping of a little lever on the steering wheel, one of the front lights flashed simultaneously with one on the rear, telling others you wished to change direction, and in which direction.

The Reverend Kurt Welner, S.J., stepped out of the Packard, put on his suit jacket—shooting his cuffs, which revealed gold cuff links adorned with some sort of gemstone—then walked up the shallow flight of stairs to the verandah.

Enrico, who was sitting in a folding wooden chair, got respectfully to his feet. Frade didn’t move.

“Welcome home,” Welner said.

“Thank you,” Clete said. “But you could have told me that at Claudia’s ‘Welcome Home, Cletus’ party tonight. What are you up to?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“You could have done that tonight, too, or on the phone.”

“In person.”

“About what? Be warned: If I don’t like the answer, no wine flows into your glass.”

“Is this one of those days when you’re determined to be difficult?”

“Probably.”

“Well, one of the things on my mind is that you have to go to the Recoleta cemetery within the next couple of days.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because the brothers want to see if you approve of their cleaning of the Frade tomb.”

“Since I don’t think you’re trying to be funny, you can have a little wine.”

“You are so kind,” Welner said as he sat down in the other wicker chair.

Frade poured wine into the priest’s glass.

“Being kind gets me in all kinds of trouble,” Frade said. “By ‘the brothers,’ you mean the monks who run the cemetery?”

“No. I meant the brothers. Are you interested in the difference between monks and brothers?”

“Spare me. Why did they clean the tomb?”

“Because the marble was dirty, and I understand there was a little corrosion here and there.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand. In addition to my saying ‘thank you,’ they would not be offended if I slipped them an envelope stuffed with money?”

“That would be very nice of you, if you should feel so inclined.”

“Am I supposed to believe that you drove all the way over here from Claudia’s just to tell me that?”

“I had a few other things on my mind.”

“For example?”