“Thank you. It was a difficult day for everyone.”

“A horrible day that went from awful to even worse. Ash has told me what’s going on, or as much of what’s going on as he’s decided to tell me. I’m going to say I was terribly fond of Vinnie. He and Angie, their family, are all part of mine, and a welcome part. I want to see the people responsible for taking his life, for breaking Angie’s heart, caught and punished. But I don’t want it at the risk of my son, or a young woman I’m already fond of.”

“I understand. Basically we’re just gathering information right now.”

“I’m not Oliver, Mom,” Ash put in.

“And thank God for it.” The breeze caught at her hair, fluttered the golden red waves. “Among countless other differences, you’re not greedy, entitled or stupid. Oliver was, and often all at the same time. It’s ridiculous to say not to speak ill of the dead. We’re all going to be dead eventually. What would we talk about in the meantime?”

Lila let out a quick laugh before she could swallow it. “Ash says he’s going to take care of me—and while he’s trying to do that, I’ll take care of him.”

“Both of you make sure you do.”

“And since you’re filled in, I can tell you—both—my ploy hit the jackpot. Condensed version. Miranda didn’t have a clue about the egg Oliver bought—she just saw it as old-fashioned and gaudy. To her, it was just more clutter in an old house she didn’t want.”

“The Martin estate is one of the most beautiful homes on Long Island,” Monica told her. “It’s been let go far too long, as Miranda’s grandmother—her father died several years ago—has been ill for a long time. I’ve been to parties there, back in the day. I was pregnant with you, Ash, the first time I went there.”

“It’s a small, incestuous world. What about the Bastone connection?”

“In the vein of small, incestuous worlds, Miranda had her first love affair with Giovanni Bastone one long-ago summer in Tuscany. The Bastones have a villa there. It has to be near Florence, as she said she and Giovanni spent a lot of time there. And she vaguely recalls a family legend about Jonas Martin—the black sheep in his time—losing a family treasure in a wager with Antonio Bastone—one of the reasons her father wasn’t happy about her dating the young Bastone. He—Giovanni—married a model, and they have several children.”

Monica sent her a look of pleased approval. “You got all of that by walking the dog?”

“I did. I also got that she had no idea what happened to Oliver, and even knowing he was killed, hasn’t connected it to the egg. She’s a very nice woman. Kind of silly, but nice. I have to remember to get her the name of Earl Grey’s breeder, because she wants her own. When I do, I think I could get Giovanni Bastone’s contact information. But we should be able to find it ourselves.”

Satisfied, Lila snagged another drink from a passing server. “Don’t you just love cocktail parties?”

“I do.” Monica tapped her glass to Lila’s. “Poor Ash tolerates them only when he can’t find a way out. He’s already thinking exit strategy here. Give it another thirty minutes,” she advised. “See and be seen, then slip out. I’ll cover for you. And you.” Monica slipped an arm around Lila’s waist, as her son often did. “We absolutely have to have a long, long lunch the next time I’m in New York.”

Thirty minutes, Ash thought, and checked his watch before leading his women back downstairs.

Nineteen

When they got back to New York, Ash decreed—though he felt no man should walk a dog the size of a hamster—it was his turn to take Earl Grey out and about. Fine with that arrangement, Lila foraged through her kitchen supplies. A few samples of party finger food had only sharpened her appetite. By the time Ash returned, she had her comfort favorite—mac and cheese—ready to serve and was already busy checking Facebook for any responses.

“You made mac and cheese.”

“From a box. Love it or leave it.”

“The blue box, right?”

“Of course. I have my standards.”

He got a beer from the fridge. Driving meant he’d had to get through the cocktail bullshit on a single beer. He’d more than earned his second of the night.

“That blue box was the only thing I could make when I got my first place. That and Eggos,” he remembered, with some fondness. “I’d toss one or the other together if I worked late. Nothing tastes as good as mac and cheese at three in the morning.”

“We could wait and see if that still holds true, but I’m hungry now. Oh, Jesus! Ashton, I got a hit.”

“A hit on what?”

“My Facebook trolling. Antonia Bastone answered. In response to my query—are you related to the Antonio Bastone who played poker with Jonas Martin in the 1940s? She writes back: ‘I am the great-granddaughter of Antonio Bastone who was a friend of the American Jonas Martin. Who are you?’”

He stuck a fork in the bowl of mac and cheese. “Antonia could be a forty-year-old man with a beer gut hoping to score with some naive girl playing on the Internet.”

Her head still bent toward her laptop screen, she merely lifted her eyes. “Who just happened to pick that name for a cover? Have a little faith—and get me a fork. If we’re going to eat out of the serving bowl, I want my own fork.”

“Picky.” He ate another bite first. “God, this takes me back. I remember making this after a long night with . . . a fork,” he said, and went into the kitchen.

“That memory involved mac and cheese and a naked woman.”

“Maybe.”

He brought back a fork and a couple of napkins.

“Just FYI, I have memories of naked men.”

“Then it’s all good.” He sat. “Okay, the middle-aged beer gut’s a stretch. She answers the American—possible she got that because she checked your page, then assumed. But yeah, it’s likely you hit. You’re handy, Lila. I wouldn’t have gone with the dog or the social media. You scored on both.”

“I’d say it’s just luck, but false modesty’s so irritating. How much should I tell her, Ash? I never thought I’d get anything this quickly, so I haven’t thought of the next step, not clearly. I can’t tell her I’m a friend of the half brother of the man who was killed because of the Fabergé egg her ancestor didn’t win from Jonas Martin. But I need to tell her something, enough of something to continue a dialogue.”