Is it, though? Irene wonders.

“He might have an account at this bank,” Ed says. “I’ll try to figure it out.”

“Thank you, Ed,” Irene says.

She hangs up and calls Paulette Vickers. Paulette is out of the office—is Paulette ever in the office? Irene wonders—and so Irene leaves a voicemail.

“Paulette, it’s Irene Steele,” she says. “I need a copy of Russ’s death certificate. I can’t do anything without it. My attorney said that until it’s issued, Russ is technically still alive.” Irene gives a weak laugh and flashes back to her dream about the chickens. “So if you would please send me a certified copy, I would greatly appreciate it. That’s apparently what I need. You have my address and if there’s a fee, I’m happy to send a check, or maybe you can take it out of your operating account for the villa.” Irene pauses. “Thank you, Paulette. If this is an issue, please call me back.”

Irene hangs up and thinks, Please don’t call me back. Just send the death certificate. Paulette’s husband, Douglas Vickers, was the one who identified Russ’s body and delivered his ashes to Irene. He’s her only hope of getting this documentation.

She feels a small sense of accomplishment—really small, because she has learned nothing except that Russ apparently had a relationship with a bank in the Cayman Islands. Irene doesn’t have the foggiest idea where the Cayman Islands are. If she were to visit, would she find that Russ also has a mistress and child there? She laughs at the absurdity of the thought—and yet, it’s not out of the question!

The road home from the airport brings Irene perilously close to the offices of the magazine Heartland Home and Style, her place of employment. Irene hasn’t been to work in three weeks. She has two voicemails from Mavis Key on her cell phone; in the second of these, Mavis announced that she “did a little detective work” and learned that Milly had passed away—which, Mavis assumed, was the reason for Irene’s “extended absence.” Mavis offered her condolences, then asked if Irene would prefer the magazine to send flowers or donate to a particular cause.

Irene had ignored the message. She didn’t want to think about work.

But she can’t ignore it forever. Impulsively, Irene turns into the parking lot of the magazine and pulls into her spot. Already the signage has been changed to read EXECUTIVE EDITOR. She cuts the engine and checks her appearance in the rearview. Her hair is braided, her bangs long but not ratty. She’s not wearing any makeup but she still has a little bit of color on her nose and across her cheeks from the sun in St. John.

In she goes.

The first person she sees is the magazine’s receptionist, Jayne. Jayne decorates the reception desk herself using the magazine’s small slush fund; she follows the lead of all the major retailers and really gets a jump on things. Now that Christmas and New Year’s are behind them, Jayne has her area decked out for Valentine’s Day. There’s an arrangement of red and white carnations on the desk and, next to that, an enormous bowl of candy hearts.

“Irene!” Jayne shrieks. She leaps out of her chair and comes running to give Irene a maternal embrace; Jayne has five children, seventeen grandchildren, a pillowy bosom, and soft downy cheeks.

Irene allows herself to be swallowed up in Jayne’s arms and soon the rest of the staff—bored or easily distracted, even though they should be hard at work on the April issue—come trooping out, all filled with joy (or maybe just relief) at Irene’s unexpected return.

Happy New Year, we’ve missed you, is everything okay, we’ve been so worried, it’s not like you to take unscheduled time off, we knew something must be wrong, we heard about your promotion, and then Mavis gave us the news about Milly. God bless you, Irene, she was so lucky to have a daughter-in-law like you.

Bets, from advertising, says, “How’s Russ handling it?”

At this, Irene separates herself by an arm’s length. She can’t lie, but neither can she tell them the truth.

She says, “Is Mavis in her office? I really need to talk with her.”

Yes, yes, Mavis is in her office. Jayne takes it upon herself to personally escort Irene up the half-flight of stairs to Mavis’s office, which happens to be right next door to Irene’s own office, the door of which is shut tight.

Jayne raps on Mavis’s door, then swings it open and announces, “Irene is here!” As though Irene is the First Lady of Iowa.

Irene steps in. Mavis is on the phone. Jayne whispers, “Mavis is always on the phone.” As if this is Irene’s first time in the office, her first time meeting Mavis. “She shouldn’t be long. I’ll give you two your privacy.” And she closes the door.

Mavis is wearing a silk pantsuit in what must be considered winter white. She’s not wearing a blouse under the blazer, though Irene spies a peek of lacy camisole. In an office where most of the employees are women and most of those women wear embroidered sweaters or Eileen Fisher schmattas, Mavis is a curiosity indeed.

Mavis raises a finger (One minute!), then lowers a palm (Please sit!). She has decorated her office in eggshell suede and black leather, an aesthetic previously frowned upon as “modern” and “urban” by the executives at Heartland Home and Style. Irene helps herself to one of the Italian sparkling waters in Mavis’s glass-fronted minifridge. Why not enjoy the pretensions that are on offer?

She decides to remain standing.

Mavis says, “Thanks for your help with this, Bernie. I’ll circle back next week.” She hangs up. “Irene?”

“Mavis,” Irene says. She turns back to make sure that the office door is closed and that Jayne isn’t stationed outside with her ear to the glass. “I need to talk to you. Can I trust you to keep what we say confidential?”

The question is rhetorical. Mavis doesn’t trade on gossip like the other people in the office because Mavis has invested only her head here, not her heart. She was hired to be a problem-solver and a moneymaker. She’s an ice queen, which, under the present circumstances, is a tremendous asset.

Irene lets it all out as concisely as possible: Russ has been killed in a helicopter crash in the Virgin Islands; Irene’s trip down to St. John with the boys revealed evidence of a second life—an expensive villa, a mistress (also dead), a twelve-year-old daughter. Russ’s body was identified and cremated before Irene arrived. Russ’s boss, Todd Croft, the apparent puppet master of this whole grotesque theater, can’t be reached, and the business’s website is down.

“I’m…I’m speechless,” Mavis says. “Your husband is dead? He had a secret life?”

Irene blinks.

“I’m sure you don’t want to go into the gritty details. Who can blame you. But…wow. I thought maybe you were angry about your new role here.”

“Oh, I was,” Irene says. “But then all this happened and…” She studies the bottle of fancy water in her hands because it gives her something to do other than cry.

“Irene,” Mavis says. “What can I do to help?”

“I’m giving you my notice,” Irene says. “I can’t come back to work. I thought maybe, with time…but no.” Irene sighs. “I’m not even sure I’ll stay in Iowa City.”