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two notes, “Hear that interval?”
    â€œA fifth,” I said.
    â€œRight. Now listen while I diminish the interval a half step.” She played two more notes. They sounded unpleasing, a little discordant.
    â€œA tritone,” I said.
    â€œRight,” said Ivory, “a diminished fifth or augmented fourth. It’s called The Devil’s Interval. It was actually outlawed in the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries because the monks couldn’t sing the damn notes. And they thought if they tried, they’d go mad.”
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with Travis?” I asked.
    She played a jazzy chord progression that began and ended with the restless-sounding interval. “When Travis improvised, he always ended on the Devil’s Interval. It’s a very unsettling sound,and it became his signature.”
    She played a little more, and ended again on the diminished fifth. It sounded unresolved and unhappy.
    â€œWhen Travis came out of the military, he used most of his saved-up pay to help me open this place. The idea was that I’d have a home base, we’d both play here from time to time, and I wouldn’t be out looking for gigs until I was far beyond the age for social security.”
    â€œBut Travis was working for the limousine company.”
    â€œWe couldn’t take enough out of The Devil’s Interval to support us both in the beginning. So, Travis had his military pension, plus the limousine work, plus…”
    â€œPlus,” I said, “he had some peace of mind knowing his mom was taken care of.”
    â€œRight,” she said. “That was the plan. And a damn fine one it used to be.”
    She closed the lid on the piano keys.
    â€œWhat else can I tell you? Isabella and Travis both say you could help if you wanted to.”
    â€œYou know I’m not an investigator,” I reminded her.
    â€œI know,” she said, “but you’ve got access to the world that Grace Plummer lived in. Through your magazine.”
    I protested, “It’s not ‘my magazine.’ I’m the editor, and it’s still a fairly new job for me. It’s a grand title, but mostly what I do is sit in meetings and shepherd the staff into staying on schedule and budget. I’m making this up as I go along.”
    Ivory didn’t say anything. I tried to imagine how it would feel to have a son on Death Row. I could imagine someone’s son, just not one of mine. I felt myself take three careful steps away from the idea. “Tell me some more about Travis,” I said, buying time.
    â€œWhat do you want to know?”
    â€œTell me about his relationships with women,” I replied. “What about this Limousine Lothario business?”
    She got up from the piano bench and walked around the bar. She shook out a towel, and picked up a glass from the rack to dry.“Travis and women. I’ll tell you, from the time that boy was ten years old, he had a way with the ladies. He’d flirt with any girl, any age, any place. When he was in junior high school, he could ditch school and never get caught, because the old biddies in the attendance office would cover for him. By the time he was in high school, he knew enough to try to get all his classes with female teachers, because he could get away with murder.”
    The word hung in the air.
    â€œI get your drift,” I said.
    Ivory picked up another glass. “I know a lot of men flirt,” she says. “But Travis has some kind of gift.”
    â€œWhere’d he get it?” I asked. “From his dad?”
    â€œWho can remember? Mr. Wonderful hightailed it out of town when Travis was three. We haven’t heard from him since. We stayed here partly because I couldn’t go back to my family on Cape Cod. I’d burned almost all those bridges. And partly because I wanted Trav’s father to be able to find him, if he ever came looking. But he