“You all wear hats like that?”


    The courtyard swayed with flowers and leafy trees, and the splash of leaf-shadows on the grass. Wooden swings hung from the thickest tree branches.


    “Cowboy hats, I mean. Do you all wear cowboy hats, who work for Ms. Adams?”


    Gunther followed my gaze. A stylish grandfather napped in a chair at the edge of the courtyard. A  three piece suit kept the sun off him, and a cowboy hat shielded his face.


    “Just me and the butler.” Gunther tipped his head toward the older man.


    We were well within the courtyard now. A white stone chimney rose above the pale orange roofing. Thin, glittering windows glaring out nooks and crannies of a roof with many awnings.


    A woman with hair so blonde it was almost white sat under the painted arch of the gazebo, and leaned against the wooden post.  Her white curls hovered around her jawline like clouds, and her expression was serene and remote, like the face of a mountain behind parting clouds I thought.


    Whatever lay behind that face was out of reach.


    We approached her by the winding cobblestone walkway, and Gunther slowed his pace.


    Pamela Adams stared resolutely into the distance, over the flower beds, the groves of palm trees, the gentle foothills, down to the roiling blue and white foam of the breakers, out to sea.


    When we reached her, I followed her gaze.


    “You’re Ms. Bailey,” she said, standing up.


    I nodded and offered a polite smile she didn’t return. Beside the gazebo, a pool rippled under the breeze, encircled by the sun-baked patio. Flower beds lay at intervals around the pool, stuffed with topheavy blossoms.


    “Eliza,” I said. “Eliza Bailey.”


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    “Tamara Menser.” She said, remembering to smile. “Take a seat.” Tamara moved toward the chairs under the gazebo.


    “You smoke?”


    I shook my head and sat down next to her, fingering the armrests. Tamara sat down much slower than she had gotten up.


    A glass table with drinks sat between us.


    “I’m sorry about your loss,” I said lamely.


    She sighed. “Gunther made a considerable effort to call you before your flight left Boston. Spare you the trouble of flying.”


    “Virtuous. Respectful of my time. I wish he had succeeded in that.”


    “Well, I asked him not to. He argued, so if you’re upset about us dragging you all the way here—”


    I looked at her. Her face gave nothing away, but finally she spoke again.


    “You’re a journalist, right?”


    I picked up a glass and wet my lips. “Gunther keeps reminding me I’m not.”


    “I think you can help me,” she went on.


    “What do you want me to do? Write your mom’s obituary?”


    She shrugged.


    “Really? No thanks, Ms. Adams. I need a job, not an hour-long gig.”


    “You think you could write her obituary in an hour?” Something in her tone gave me pause, like a flash of movement underwater.


    I laughed bitterly. “Sure. I’ll start now. Pamela Adams died before she could hire me.”


    Tamara bit her lip. Her voice was very small when she spoke. “She was murdered actually.”


    “Murdered.”


    She nodded. Her white curls bounced.


    “Murdered. How?”


    “We’re not sure. But it happened on the train tracks.”


    And now you want me to write your mom’s obituary.”


    “I want you to find out what happened to her.”


    “What do you know already?”


    “I know that she died. And we’re pretty sure it was murder. I want to know what happened before that. I want to know why she was murdered.”


    “The cops haven’t found the murderer?”


    “No trace.”


    “But she was definitely murdered?”


    “It was clear from what was left of her,” she said quietly.


    “Look, Ms. Adams, I’m a writer, not a cop.”


    “You’ll be working with—”


    “No. I don’t work with cops.”


    “With Gunther, Miss Bailey.”


    “Okay. Okay. I do work with Gunthers.”