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of the papers, or someone would have told me by now, so there really is nothing we can do at the moment.”
    She took a bite, swallowed, and added, “The policewould certainly have been in touch with me already if they had been going to.” She laughed at her own illogic—and perhaps the awkwardly dangling infinitive.
    â€œWhy are you so sure about that?” Faith asked suspiciously. Grammar or no grammar, she knew what Emma was hinting. She took a bite of the scone on her own plate and put it down. Too much baking powder.
    â€œI always sent Daddy postcards when I was traveling and couldn’t get to see him. Besides, he did so miss leaving the country. He’d hitchhiked all over the world when he was younger.”
    â€œAnd he saved them?”
    â€œOne was on the fridge the last time I was there.”
    Ignoring the homey image this conjured up—hammer and sickle refrigerator magnets?—Faith pressed. “But how would the police have known who you were? Granted, they could check up on people named Emma who’d left the country for those destinations near the postmarked dates, but it wouldn’t be easy.”
    â€œThey would have recognized Michael from our wedding picture,” Emma answered matter-of-factly.
    Faith’s head began to reel as she envisioned the Spartan studio apartment described in the media filled with nothing but books, an ancient Underwood on a card table, a bed, and a file cabinet—envisioned the apartment complete with an eight-by-ten glossy of Emma and Michael, the bride and groom, in a silver frame from Tiffany’s.
    But Emma was right. The police would have been onto her immediately. Fox’s murderer had taken the photo and the cards. Fox’s murderer. Emma’s blackmailer?
    Emma stood up. She looked out at the tree and saidpensively, “I’m madly behind with my shopping. I’d better go to Saks.”
    Faith pulled on her coat. “What about Todd? What happened to him? Don’t tell me you see him at three o’clock on Wednesdays.”
    â€œDon’t be silly. I never saw him again after that, but I did get a card in the mail a couple of years ago from some real estate firm on Long Island. You know the kind. ‘If you’re thinking of buying a house, think of me.’ And it had his picture on it; otherwise, I would never even have read it. It was right after we got married, and he must have seen the announcement in the Times. Maybe he thought we wanted to move out of the city. City—that’s where he was—Garden City.”
    So, Todd Hartley had not assumed a blue collar—and he knew what had happened to Fox’s daughter. And that she’d been pregnant by him. Faith put his name on the list of potential blackmailers.
    â€œWas there anybody else who knew who Fox was and knew you? Anyone else around when you went to see him the first time?”
    â€œHe was living with some woman. Daddy always had women,” Emma added ruefully. Faith was glad to see it. All this Daddy Fox worship was getting to be a bit much. “I didn’t meet her, though. I think he didn’t want her to know about me.”
    Faith made a mental note of this woman. The list could use a few more names. At the moment, it consisted of Lucy Morris and Todd Hartley. Poppy Morris knew about her daughter’s pregnancy and parentage, but it strained credulity to think she would be blackmailing her own daughter. Still, Faith made another note to try to find out if Poppy was paying her Bergdorf’s bills on time. Some of the veteran salesforce who had been outfitting Jane Lennox Sibley’s family forever could be counted on to spill a few beans.
    Jason Morris obviously knew about Nathan Fox and his wife’s affair, yet he may not have known about Emma’s pregnancy, although Emma had mentioned that Poppy was carrying on about it all over the house. The only reason he’d have to blackmail