I guided my battered Honda along streets of two-story mansions, past Mercedes and BMWs. Some of the homes were designed in the Spanish Revival style, with flagstone terraces, turrets, and ornamental wrought-iron balcony railings. Others had been modeled after New Orleans plantation homes, or New England colonials with white columns, gables, and banded chimneys. They were all large, beautifully landscaped, and shaded by oaks that lined the walks like giant sentinels.

Although I knew Churchill's house was going to be impressive, there was no way I could have been adequately prepared for it. It was an estate, a stone house designed like a European chateau and set back on a three-acre bayou lot. I stopped at the heavy iron gates and entered the code. To my relief, the gates opened with majestic slowness. A broad paved drive led to the house and split into two roads, one encircling the house, the other leading to

a separate garage big enough for ten cars.

I pulled up to the garage and parked at the side, trying to find the least conspicuous place. My poor Honda looked like something that had been left out for the garbagemen to collect. The garage doors were made entirely of glass, showcasing a silver Mercedes sedan. the white Bentley, and a yellow Shelby Cobra with Lemans stripes. There were more cars on the other side, but I was too dazed and anxious to look at them.

It was a relatively cool autumn day, and I was grateful for the diffident breeze that cooled my perspiring forehead. Carrying a bag filled with supplies, I walked to the front door.

The plants and hedged sections of lawn around the house looked like they'd been watered with Evian and trimmed with cuticle scissors. I could have sworn the long, silky drifts of Mexican feather grass bordering the front walk had been tended with a Mason Pearson pocket comb. I reached for the doorbell button, which was located beneath an inset video camera just like the ones you see at ATM machines.

As I rang the bell, it caused the video camera to whir and focus on me, and I nearly recoiled. I realized I hadn't brushed my hair or touched up my makeup before leaving the salon. Now it was too late, as I found myself standing in front of a rich people's doorbell that was looking right back at me.

In less than a minute the door opened. I was greeted by a slim elderly woman, elegantly dressed in green pants and beaded mules and a patterned chiffon blouse. She looked about sixty, but she was so well kept I guessed her real age was probably closer to seventy. Her silver hair had been cut and teased into the Drain Clog style, not a hole to be found in the perfect puffy mass. We were nearly of a height, but the hair gave her at least three inches on me. Diamond earrings the size of Christmas ornaments dangled halfway to her shoulders.

She smiled, a genuine smile that made her eyes crinkle into familiar dark slits. Instantly I knew she was Churchill's older sister Gretchen. who had been engaged three times but never married. Churchill had told me all Gretchen's fiances had died in tragic circumstances. the first in the Korean War, the second in a car accident, the third from a heart defect no one had known about until it killed him without warning. After the last one Gretchen had said it was obvious she was not meant to marry, and she'd stayed single ever since.

I had been so moved by the story I'd almost cried, picturing Churchill's sister as a spinster dressed in black. "Doesn't she find it lonely," I had asked tentatively, "not ever having..." I paused as I considered the best way to phrase it. Carnal relations? Physical intimacy? "A man in her life?"

"Hell, no, she doesn't find it lonely," Churchill had said with a snort. "Gretchen kicks up her heels every time she gets a chance. She's had more than her fair share of men—she just won't marry any of 'em."

Staring at this sweet-faced woman, seeing the twinkle in her eyes. I thought. You are a hot ticket, Miss Gretchen Travis.

"Liberty. I'm Gretchen Travis." She looked at me as if we were old friends and reached out to take my hands in hers. I set my bag down and awkwardly returned her grip. Her fingers felt warm and fine-boned amid a clatter of chunky jeweled rings. "Churchill told me about you, but he didn't say what a pretty little thing you are. Are you thirsty, honey? Is that bag heavy? Leave it there and we'll have someone carry it up for us. Do you know who you remind me of?"

Like Churchill, she cast out questions in clusters. I hastened to reply. "Thank you, ma'am, but I'm not thirsty. And I can carry this." I picked the bag up.

Gretchen drew me inside the entrance and retained my free hand as if I were too young to be trusted to wander through the house alone. It felt odd but nice to hold the hand of an adult woman. We walked into a marble-floored hall with a ceiling that was two stories high. Niches featuring bronze sculptures were embedded all along the walls. Gretchen's voice echoed slightly as we headed to a pair of elevator doors tucked beneath one side of a horseshoe-shaped staircase.

"Rita Hayworth," she said, answering her own previous question. "Just like she looked in Gilda, with that wavy hair and those long eyelashes. Did you ever see that movie?"

"No, ma'am."

"That's all right. I don't recall it ended well." She released my hand and pushed the elevator button. "We could take the stairs. But this is so much easier. Never stand when you can sit and never walk when you can ride."

"Yes, ma'am." I straightened my clothing as discreetly as possible, tugging the hem of

my black vee-neck T-shirt over the top of my white jeans. My red-polished toes peeked out from a pair of backless low-heeled sandals. I wished I had chosen a nicer outfit that morning, but I'd had no idea how the day would turn out. "Miss Travis," I said, "please tell me how—"