Perfect.

The room she checked into looked over a shadowy interior courtyard. As she unbuttoned her dress, she stood gazing down at a scrawny cat pouncing on something too small for Lily to make out. A piece of string? A doomed mouse?

Stripped down to her underwear, she collapsed onto the lumpy bed and listened to the rattle of window air conditioners in the courtyard, to the honking horns and roaring buses of the Eternal City. A city of four million is a good place to hide for a while, she thought. No one will easily find me here.

Not even the Devil.

Edwina Felway’s house was in the suburb of Newton. It sat at the edge of the snow-covered Braeburn Country Club, overlooking the east branch of Cheesecake Brook, which was now a gleaming ribbon of ice. Although it was certainly not the largest house on this road of grand residences, its charming eccentricities distinguished it from its more stately neighbors. Thick vines of wisteria had clambered up its stone walls and clung there like arthritic fingers, waiting for spring to warm their knobby joints and coax forth blooms. Framed by one of the gables, a large ocular of stained glass peered like a multicolored eye. Beneath the peaked slate roof, icicles sparkled like jagged teeth. In the front yard, sculptures reared ice-encrusted heads, as though emerging from snowbound hibernation: A winged fairy, still flash-frozen in mid-flight. A dragon, its fiery breath temporarily extinguished. A willowy maiden, the flower wreath on her head transformed by winter to a crown of snowdrops.

“What do you think?” asked Jane as she stared out the car window at the house. “Two million? Two and a half?”

“This neighborhood, right on the golf course? I’m guessing more like four,” said Barry Frost.

“For that weird old house?”

“I don’t think it’s all that old.”

“Well, someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look old.”

“Atmospheric. That’s what I’d call it.”

“Right. Home of the Seven Dwarfs.” Jane turned the car into the driveway and parked beside a van. As they stepped out, onto well-sanded cobblestones, Jane noticed the handicapped placard on the van’s dashboard. Peering through the rear window, she saw a wheelchair lift.

“Hello, there! Are you the detectives?” a booming voice called out. The woman who stood on the porch waving at them was obviously able-bodied.

“Mrs. Felway?” said Jane.

“Yes. And you must be Detective Rizzoli.”

“And my partner, Detective Frost.”

“Watch those cobblestones, they’re slippery. I try to keep the driveway sanded for visitors, but really, there’s no substitute for sensible shoes.” Sensible was a word that clearly applied to Edwina Felway’s wardrobe, Jane noted, as she climbed the steps to shake the woman’s hand. Edwina wore a baggy tweed jacket and wool trousers and rubber Wellingtons, the outfit of an English countrywoman, a role she certainly seemed to fulfill, from her accent right down to her green garden boots. Although she had to be sixty, she stood straight and sturdy as a tree, her handsome face ruddy in the cold, her shoulders as broad as a man’s. The gray hair, cut in a neat pageboy, was pinned back with tortoiseshell barrettes, fully exposing a face with prominent cheekbones and direct blue eyes. She had no need for makeup; she was striking enough without it.

“I’ve put the kettle on,” said Edwina, ushering them into the house. “In case you’d like some tea.” She shut the door, pulled off her boots, and shoved her stocking feet into worn slippers. From upstairs came the excited barking of dogs. Big dogs, by the sound of them. “Oh, I’ve shut them up in the bedroom. They’re not all that disciplined around strangers. And they’re quite intimidating.”

“Do you want us to take off our shoes?” asked Frost.

“Heavens, forget it. The dogs are in and out all the time anyway, tracking in sand. I can’t worry about the floor. Here, let me take your coats.”

As Jane pulled off her jacket, she could not help staring upward at the ceiling that arched overhead. The open rafters were like the beams of a medieval hall. The stained-glass ocular that she had noticed outside beamed in a circle of candy-colored light. Everywhere she looked, on every wall, she saw oddities. A niche with a wooden Madonna, decorated in gold leaf and multicolored glass. A Russian Orthodox triptych painted in jewel tones. Carved animal statues and Tibetan prayer shawls, and a row of medieval oaken pews. Against one wall was a Native American totem pole that thrust all the way to the two-story ceiling.

“Wow,” said Frost. “You’ve got a really interesting place here, ma’am.”

“My husband was an anthropologist. And a collector, until we ran out of space to put it all.” She pointed at the eagle’s head that glared down from the totem pole. “That thing was his favorite. There’s even more of this stuff in storage. It’s probably worth a fortune, but I’ve gotten attached to every hideous piece and I can’t bring myself to let any of it go.”

“And your husband is-”

“Dead.” She said it without hesitation. Just a fact of life. “He was quite a bit older than me. I’ve been a widow for years now. But we had a good fifteen years together.” She hung up their coats, and Jane caught a glimpse into the cluttered closet, saw an ebony walking stick topped by a human skull. That monstrosity, she thought, I would’ve tossed out a long time ago.

Edwina shut the closet door and looked at them. “I’m sure you detectives have your hands full with this investigation. So we thought we’d make things easier for you.”

“Easier?” asked Jane.

The rising squeal of a teakettle made Edwina glance toward the hallway. “Let’s go sit in the kitchen,” she said, and led the way up the hall, her worn slippers whisking across the tired oak floor. “Anthony warned us you’d have a lot of questions, so we wrote out a complete timeline for you. Everything we remember from last evening.”

“Mr. Sansone discussed this with you?”

“He called last night, to tell me everything that happened after I left.”

“I’m sorry he did. It would have been better if you hadn’t talked to him about it.”

Edwina paused in the hallway. “Why? So we can approach this like blind men? If we want to be helpful to the police, we need to be sure of our facts.”

“I’d rather have independent statements from our witnesses.”

“Every member of our group is quite independent, believe me. We each maintain our own opinions. Anthony wouldn’t want it any other way. It’s why we work so well together.”

The scream of the teakettle abruptly cut off, and Edwina glanced toward the kitchen. “Oh, I guess he got it.”

He? Who else was in the house?

Edwina scurried into the kitchen and said, “Here, let me do it.”

“It’s fine, Winnie, I’ve already filled the pot. You wanted Irish breakfast tea, right?”

The man sat in a wheelchair, his back turned to the visitors. Here was the owner of the van in the driveway. He pivoted his chair around to greet them, and Jane saw a thatch of limp brown hair and eyeglasses with thick tortoiseshell frames. The gray eyes that met her gaze were focused and curious. He looked young enough to be Edwina’s son-no older than his mid-twenties. But he sounded American, and there was no family resemblance between the robustly healthy Edwina and this pale young man.

“Let me introduce you,” said Edwina. “This is Detective Frost and Detective Rizzoli. And this is Oliver Stark.”

Jane frowned at the young man. “You were one of the dinner guests last night. At Sansone’s house.”

“Yes.” Oliver paused, reading her face. “Is that a problem?”

“We had hoped to talk to you separately.”

“They’re not happy we’ve already discussed the case amongst ourselves,” Edwina told him.