I leaned forward. “Millhone. Accent on the first syllable.” No point in tackling the “Kinsley” issue.

Kim corrected herself, saying, “Millhone.” As she listened, her manner underwent a subtle shift. “Well, yes, ma’am. I’ll let her know. I can do that,” she said. She hung up. “She’ll be right out. May I offer you coffee or bottled water?”

“I’m fine,” I said. I was as surprised as she was that Catherine Phillips intended to emerge from her office to greet me personally. No wonder she was first in her class.

In a remarkably short period of time, she appeared from the corridor, holding out her hand. “So nice to meet you,” she said warmly. “I’m delighted you stopped by. Come on back to my office where we can chat.”

We shook hands and I worked to make my grip as firm and forthright as hers.

I wanted to send Kim Bass a smug look, but I restrained myself. Ms. Phillips ushered me into the corridor and then moved ahead so she could show me the way.

She was elegantly dressed in an understated way: black wool gabardine suit with a tailored jacket and knee-length skirt, white silk shell, medium heels with sheer black hose. She was trim and her hair was unabashedly gray, blunt cut, with a sheen to it. She reminded me of my Aunt Susannah, with whom I’d been smitten on sight. In moments like this, the desire for a mother fills me with something akin to pain. Mine died when I was five, and I carry a vision of her like an exemplar against which all women are tested. Ordinarily, Rosie is as close to a mother as I get. Granted, she’s opinionated, bossy, and overbearing, but at least she cares. This woman was my ideal: warm, lovely, gracious, encompassing. My inner self mewed like a kitten while my outer self sailed on.

“I hope Kim offered you coffee.”

“She did. Thanks.”

“You couldn’t have come at a better time. My ten o’clock canceled and I was at loose ends.”

I said, “Ah.”

This was worrisome. She was being so nice. She must have mistaken me for someone else, and what was I to say? I’d asked for her on a whim, and now I couldn’t think of one earthly reason I’d be quizzing her about the Clipper estate. Any hope of a convincing fib went straight out of my head. I pride myself on lying well, but I was drawing a blank. I wondered if I’d be forced to fall back on the truth—a risky proposition at best.

Entering her office, this is what I learned: when you gross 6 percent of $23 million annually, you can decorate your personal space any way you want. Hers was understated elegance, like the public area in a high-class hotel, only with a number of personal touches thrown in. There were fresh flowers on her desk, and I could see angled silver picture frames that probably showcased family members: husband, children, a goofy, lovable dog rescued from the pound.

She offered me a seat on a couch upholstered in dove gray. The cushions must have been filled with down because I sank with a sigh of air. She sat in a matching chair, just close enough to suggest intimacy without invading my personal space. The coffee table between us was glass and chrome, but most of the other furnishings were antique. “Janie’s talked about you so often, I can’t believe our paths have never crossed,” she said.

Oh dear. I don’t know anyone named Janie, and I was just about to pipe up and confess when I realized what she’d actually said was “Cheney.” I felt my head tilt metaphorically, and then the penny dropped. My mouth didn’t actually flop open, but I was momentarily without speech. This was Cheney Phillips’s mother. I remembered then that while his father was X. Phillips of the Bank of X. Phillips, his mother sold high-end real estate. All I could think to say was, “I need help.”

“Well, I’ll do what I can,” she said without missing a beat.

I described the situation as succinctly as possible, starting with the phone call from Hallie Bettancourt and moving on to our meeting. I repeated the lengthy tale of woe she’d laid on me, and then detailed Detective Nash’s subsequent revelation about the marked hundred-dollar bills. I capped the recitation with my confusion when Vera assured me the Clipper estate had been empty for years.

I could see her curiosity mount as mine had, point by point, including the fact that the phone numbers Hallie had given me were nonoperant. When I finally paused, she took a moment to reflect.

“She went to a great deal of trouble to pull the wool over your eyes,” she said.

“And it worked like a charm. Honestly, she didn’t have to persuade me of anything. She offered me the bait and I took it. I thought her relationship with Geoffrey was odd—assuming she has a husband by that name—but I didn’t doubt for a minute she’d given birth to a son out of wedlock and put the child up for adoption. It didn’t even occur to me to question the fact that she hoped to make contact with him while keeping her husband in the dark. I quizzed her on a point or two, but I didn’t really dig into the story. When she cautioned me to be discreet, it all made perfect sense.”