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auction. Kenyon shook his head in wonder as he gazed at a small sheep floating in a tub of formaldehyde and a pair of mannequins with genitals molded to their foreheads.
    The camera continued and the agent caught a glimpse of Tanya O’Neill. She was dressed in an emerald green ball gown that complemented her dark red hair. Beautiful, thought Kenyon.
    Legrand passed through, dressed in a black tuxedo and carrying a brandy snifter. He glanced irritably at the camera before moving out of view.
    Suddenly, Kenyon sat up in bed. He pressed the reverse button, and the picture swam backwards. There. Standing against a pillar, staring out into the distance, was Lydia. He pushed the frame-by-frame button, and the picture began to move slowly forward.
    Lydia turned her gaze toward the camera. She wore a stunning red silk evening gown and a string of pearls, but the expression on her face was dark and full of foreboding.

Six
Saturday, July 9
    The next day Kenyon woke at mid-morning. He hadn’t slept long—rolling over on his stitches had taken care of that—but the bed was firm and comfortable, and he felt refreshed. He arose and pulled back the curtains, letting light stream into the room. It was going to be a hot Saturday.
    Kenyon went to the adjoining bathroom. The soap in the shower stall smelled of lavender. He had a quick shower and a shave, then dug a golf shirt and a pair of jeans from his luggage and got dressed.
    The smell of frying sausage hit his nostrils as he walked downstairs. He paused on the stairwell for a moment, listening. He could hear the rattle of pots and pans in the kitchen. Cautiously, he inched down the stairs and advanced quietly to the entrance of the kitchen.
    A woman was standing at the stove, her back to Kenyon, singing in Spanish. She was about forty, short and stout, with her hair dyed a brilliant red. She threw a dollop of butter into a frying pan, then cracked several eggs.
    Kenyon advanced into the kitchen. “Hello?” he said.
    The woman jumped in fright, then spun around, clutching a spatula to her ample bosom. “You scare me!”
    â€œSorry. What are you doing in my kitchen?”
    The woman peered closely at him. “You Mister Yack Kenyon?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œOh, Mister Yack.” She came over and gave him a big hug, her short arms barely reaching around Kenyon’s chest. She started to cry.
    Kenyon patted her on the back as she sniffled into his shirt. “Uh, it’s okay,” he said. He reached across and pulled a section off a roll of paper towels and offered it to her. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
    The woman blew her nose in the towel. “No, no. I cry for Miss Lydia.”
    Kenyon suddenly understood. “You’re the housekeeper?”
    The woman beamed. “Ya. I am Señora Santucci.” Kenyon held out his hand, but the woman hugged him again. “I am so sorry for your auntie.”
    â€œThank you.” Kenyon glanced at the stove, which was beginning to smoke. “Is something burning?”
    Señora Santucci quickly turned and removed the frying pan. “You hungry? See—I make you breakfast.”
    Kenyon’s stomach growled in appreciation. “Thanks, I’d love some.” He glanced around the room. “You brew any coffee, Señora Santucci?”
    She removed a carafe from an automatic brewer and poured him a cup. “Si. Cream?”
    Kenyon held up a hand. “Black is fine.”
    â€œGood. You sit, and I make big meal.”
    Kenyon sat down in the nook and watched the housekeeper bustle around the kitchen. Within minutes, she had a steaming plate of sausage and eggs on toast set before him. Kenyon avidly dug in with his knife and fork. “This is great.”
    â€œYou like? Good. Then you keep Rosita as housekeeper, no?”
    â€œI’d be happy to, until I leave, anyway.”
    Santucci’s smile faded. “You no stay?
    â€œI’ve got