“The fact is I think George was sacrificed to get to me.” She banged her fist on the table, making the croissant on her plate jump. Tears blurred her eyes.

Sherlock was shaking her head. “I don’t think this is all about money. This is personal. Can you think of anything you’ve done that could lead to this elaborate revenge, with your death as the final prize? Is there anyone who hates you that much?”

Natalie was thoughtful for a moment. “How many of us can even conceive of a hatred that deep pointed at us? That we ourselves could have brought on? Honestly, there isn’t anyone I can point to. The Foreign Service has its share of political backstabbing, jealousies and resentments over appointments, awards someone else wanted, but what field doesn’t? Is someone after my job? Well, sure, hundreds of people might want to be the ambassador to the United Kingdom. But enough for”—she waved her hands—“for all this?” She looked at her daughter. “Perry, do you resent me for not joining you on the sidelines with your father at football games?”

Perry said, “The only thing I resent is you chose not to tell me about Buckner Park until I found out about it from Davis last night. And about that black truck.”

Perry took her mother’s hand. “Mom, I’m scared. That black truck last night? It’s too much. He’s here, close by, waiting. I wish you’d trusted me, told me everything. No, I know, you were trying to protect me, but no more, all right?”

Natalie slowly nodded.

Sherlock studied Natalie Black. She liked her poise, her intelligence. She was keeping herself together and focused, despite all the misery that was being visited on her. Sherlock thought she was one of the good ones. She had a strong notion if Natalie Black had been carrying a gun as Sherlock had yesterday, that black sedan would be a wreck now, like the Kawasaki. Sherlock rather hoped she could be like Natalie Black one day. Odd how they both had red hair.

Perry said, “About George’s death. Maybe it was someone after him, an enemy.”

Natalie said, “I can’t think of anyone who would want him dead. Certainly not the McCallums. They’re a large family, and their many homes and Lockenby Manor are expensive to keep up. George wasn’t rich, very few of the old families are nowadays, and now there’ll be George’s death taxes to pay. If I had married George, some of my own money would have been available to them, and they knew that. But if George died first, they also knew the money would stay with me.”

Savich said slowly, “Let’s place it back at you. Tell us about your own family.”

“There’s only my half-brother, Milton, and his family,” Natalie said. “And, of course, my parents.”

Perry said, “Uncle Milt was the crown prince until Mom was born. He always resented her. He was at the party last night. He’s not staying with you, is he?”

Natalie said, “No, he very much prefers The Willard. Milton showed up Monday without bothering to let me know he was coming. He claimed he wanted to share my burden, but I know him too well to confide in him. He went on about how worried he, his wife, and our parents are, patted my back and looked sorrowful, you get the picture. I didn’t tell him anything he hadn’t read about, not then or at the party last night.

“Perry’s right, he never liked me. Actually, as far as I can tell, he’s never been happy. He’s always wanted more than he has, spent more than he has. He’s weak, dependent on our father and his stepmother financially. I’ve always thought him harmless. He swims well in state political waters, but now he wants to try for Congress, and he needs money to do that. It’s a level Milton couldn’t manage, I’m afraid.” She paused. “He doesn’t have the guts for those sharks. I’d say that would pertain both to politics and to killing his half-sister.”

Savich poured more tea from the Georgian silver pot. “Milt’s married? Kids?”

“Yes. He went through his wife’s trust fund before the end of his second campaign for state office. He’s always got his hat in his hands to our parents.

“He’s got a son, Allan, who’s an MBA, stolid and unimaginative—like his father, really—but unlike his father, he does have a backbone. He’s thirty-five, married, a couple of kids.”

Davis was wiping croissant crumbs off his fingers. “Natalie, if you died, what would Milt get?”

“Nothing. Perry gets everything.”

Sherlock said, “If Perry were to die, would he get something?”

That was a conversation stopper.