The carpeting was white shag, the couch and chairs upholstered in steel blue canvas, with throw pillows in off-white and seafoam green. Aside from a cluster of family photographs in antique silver frames, there were no knickknacks. The room was interspersed with a variety of glossy house plants, big healthy specimens that seemed to saturate the air with oxygen. This was fortunate given all the noxious cigarette smoke in the air. The furnishings were handsome, probably inexpensive knockoffs of designer brands.

Dana Jaffe was pencil thin, wearing tight, faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt, tennis shoes without socks. When I wear the same outfit, it looks like I’m all set to change the oil in my car. On her, the outfit had a careless elegance. She had her hair pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck, tied with a scarf. I could see now that the blond was laced with silver, but the effect was artless, as if she were confident the aging process would only add interest to a face already honed and chiseled. The overbite made her mouth seem pouty and probably kept her from being labeled “beautiful,” whatever that consists of. She would be relegated to categories like “interesting” or “attractive,” though personally I’d have killed for a face like hers, strong and arresting, with a flawless complexion.

She picked up the cigarette she’d left in the ashtray, dragging on it deeply as she went on with her conversation. “I don’t think you’ll be happy with that,” she was saying. “Well, the style’s not going to be flattering. You told me Corey’s cousin was on the hefty side…. Okay, a blimp. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You don’t want to put a peplum on a blimp….A full skirt….Uhhun, right. That’s going to minimize heavy legs and hips….No, no, no. I’m not talking about bulky full ness….I understand. Maybe something with a slightly dropped waist. I think we should find a dress with a shaped neckline, too, because that’s going to pull the eye upward. Do you understand what I’m saying? …Uhmhmmm….Well, why don’t I go through my books here and I’ll come up with some suggestions. You might have Corey pick up a couple of brides magazines from the supermarket. We can talk tomorrow….Okay…. All right, fine. I’ll call you back…. You’re entirely welcome…. You too.”

She replaced the receiver and gave the telephone cord a little looping flap, pulling the length of it toward her. She extinguished the cigarette in an ashtray on her desk and then moved into the living room, smoke still trailing from her mouth. I took a quick moment to scan the room. In the small slice of family room that I could see, there were miscellaneous items of baby paraphernalia: a playpen, a high chair, a wind-up swing guaranteed to put an infant to sleep if it didn’t generate a lot of puking first.

“You’d never guess I’m a grandma,” she said with irony when she caught my eye.

I had placed my business card on the coffee table, and I saw her glance at it again with curiosity. I tucked in a hasty question before she had a chance to quiz me. “Are you moving? I saw the boxes on the porch. It looks like you’re all set.”

“Not me. My son and his wife. They’ve just bought a little house.” She leaned over and picked up the card. “Excuse me, I’d like to know what this is about. If it has to do with Brian, you’ll need to talk to his attorney. I’m not at liberty to discuss his situation.”

“This is not about Brian. It’s about Wendell.”

Her gaze became fixed. “Have a seat,” she said, indicating a nearby chair. She sat down on the edge of the couch, pulling an ashtray in closer to her. She lit another cigarette, her movements brisk, dragging deeply as she arranged both her lighter and the pack of Eve 100’s on the table in front of her. “Were you acquainted with him?”

“Not at all,” I said. I perched on a chrome-and-gray-leather director’s chair that squawked beneath my weight. Sounded like I’d made a rude butt noise as a joke.

She blew two streams of smoke from her nose. “Because he’s dead, you know. He’s been gone for years. He got into trouble and he killed himself.”

“That’s why I’m here. Last week, the California Fidelity agent who sold Wendell his life insurance policy…”

“Dick What’s-his-name…Mills.”

“That’s correct. Mr. Mills was vacationing in a little Mexican resort and spotted Wendell in a bar.”

She burst out laughing. “Oh, sure, right.”

I stirred uncomfortably. “It’s true.”