Ben said, “Will you ladies be staying here tonight?”

Five sets of eyes turned to him. “Oh no,” said Anna Clifford. “Our families are patient, they understand, but they want us back home. Since Callie’s here now, we’ll leave when it’s time for Margaret to go to bed.”

“Your husband, Mrs. Clifford, what does he do?”

“He used to be a banker, but now he’s a venture capitalist.” She paused a moment, chewed some pizza. “Most people don’t really understand what that means, exactly, but to me it sounds mysterious, maybe dangerous, like laundering Mafia money.”

That drew a round of laughter, but Margaret said, in a serious voice, “There’s nothing illegal in what Clayton does, Anna. He simply invests his own and other people’s money in individual entrepreneurs or start-up companies that interest him. He’s good at analyzing their growth potential, their planning skills, and deciding if they’re worth the risk.”

Anna smiled as she said, “Come on, Margaret, you know very well Clayton says it’s like deciding whether or not to buy Boardwalk in Monopoly.”

Bitsy said, “Eat more pizza, Margaret. Those chunks of pepper will bring back your sense of humor.”

Margaret dropped her slice of pizza back on her paper plate. She looked like she was about to burst into tears. “You don’t know what I did!”

“Mom, whatever it was—”

“Stewart wanted to be cremated. I didn’t follow his wishes. It was the President, you see, and all the protocol experts. Everyone expected a big church service, Stewart in a coffin in front of celebrity mourners. I ignored his wishes and buried him.” Margaret put her face in her hands and wept. “I buried him.”

“Oh, Mom, don’t.” Callie put her arms around her mother and rocked her. The women gathered around, patting her hair, her shoulders, her arms. “It doesn’t matter, Mom. Stewart wasn’t there. That magnificent service was for all his friends, for the President, for all those people who admired him. It was for everyone there to say their farewells to him. And the burial itself was so beautifully done. He wouldn’t have minded, truly.”

Ben had never felt so useless in his life. If he could have disappeared in that instant, he would have.

Then the storm of tears was over. Margaret gave a small laugh. “Poor Detective Raven. I’m sorry for that. You poor boy, stuck among all us women, but you’re doing very well, isn’t he, Juliette?”

“Very well indeed.”

Ben said, “You said that we hadn’t gotten much done, ma’am. Well, actually that’s not true. The FBI think they know who the assassin is. He calls himself Günter Grass, or just Günter.”

Margaret said, puzzled, “The writer? The man who murdered Stewart is a German?”

“We don’t know what nationality he is. Günter Grass is the name he uses. He’s been inactive, supposedly for at least fifteen years now, until this. He’s known to speak four languages fluently, including English. He could very well live among us. He could even be living locally, and the person who wanted Justice Califano murdered very possibly knew about Günter and his profession.

“This man killed twenty people in Europe in the seventies and eighties. We don’t know why he stopped.” Ben pulled two photos out of his shirt pocket. “Here’s a grainy photo, digitally enhanced—Interpol is about ninety percent sure it’s him—and here’s one that’s been aged to show how he’d probably look today, unless, of course, he’s taken pains to change his appearance, which is possible.” He handed both photos to the women and waited until each one had looked at them.

“Does this man look familiar to any of you?”

Juliette said, “He looks like a contractor my neighbor hired to gut her house.”

Margaret said, “Detective Raven, if this Günter Grass hasn’t killed anyone for at least fifteen years, doesn’t that mean he made enough money to retire in style?”

“One could assume that, yes.”

“Then why would he kill my husband and poor Danny O’Malley?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Califano.”

Bitsy St. Pierre said, “Maybe the person who hired him found out about him, blackmailed him into doing this.”

Janette said, “That’s stupid, Bitsy. Look what he did to Danny O’Malley—killed him within twenty-four hours of a blackmail attempt.”

“Yes,” Margaret said. “It must be something else. Maybe there’s a tie between this Günter and the person who wanted Stewart dead.”