“Maybe they have Soap Opera Digest in heaven, and she’s been able to catch up,” Willy suggested.

Kate came in carrying a tray, which she placed on the coffee table. “Oh, Willy,” she said, “would you mind closing the door. ‘Hon’ and ‘Dearie’ will be back with the papers any time now, and I don’t want them to come in and bother us.”

“My pleasure, Kate,” Willy said with a grunt as he got up.

At the mention of the Bakers, the subject of the will came up. As a reflex gesture, Alvirah turned on the microphone in her sunburst pin.

“Bessie always wrote with the judge’s pen, and she never used blue ink in it,” Kate said when Alvirah talked about the differing shades of blue ink on the will and the attestation clause. “But then again, she did a lot of crazy things during those last few days.”

“What about her typewriter?” Alvirah asked. “I thought she said something about it on Thanksgiving.”

“I’m not sure,” Kate murmured.

“All right. How bad was her eyesight?” Alvirah queried.

“She had bifocals; you know that. But the prescription for the reading lenses needed to be strengthened. If she didn’t hold something up close to her face, she had trouble making it out. She may have signed those papers thinking she was signing for a delivery of paint or varnish or tools,” Alvirah said. “I was here once when Baker brought her a receipt to sign for a delivery. He handed her his pen.”

“All of which won’t help you in court,” Willy observed. “Kate, I’d walk a mile for a piece of that crumb cake.”

Kate smiled. “No need to do that-there’s plenty right here. Bessie loved it too. Told me that even after she was gone, I should fix a piece for her and set it out in this room on Sunday mornings. She said she’d haunt me if I forgot.”

And then along came the Bakers, Alvirah thought. From the foyer she heard the click of the outside door. “The heirs are back,” she murmured, and then watched in dismay as the door to the parlor swung open and Vic and Linda Baker smiled in on them.

“Elevensies,” Vic said in his usual jovial tone. “That’s what they call it in England, having a morning snack break like this. It’s always around eleven o’clock.” He took a step into the room. “My, that crumb cake looks spectacular, Kate.”

“It is,” Alvirah said flatly. “Didn’t you adjust that door for Bessie, Mr. Baker?”

“As a matter of fact, I did, yes.”

“Is that why it swings open so easily?”

“It needs a bit more adjusting.” Clearly uncomfortable with the conversation, he turned to leave. “Well, I’m off to try my hand at the puzzle.”

They waited until the sound of Vic’s heavy footsteps and the bouncy staccato of Linda’s heels could no longer be heard. “You can’t insult that guy, can you?” Willy observed.

“It’s more than that,” Kate said. “He’s curious about what we’re saying. Thank God, I’m almost through clearing out Bessie’s room. He always hangs around when I’m in there.” She frowned. “You know, Alvirah, talking about the typewriter, the space bar has needed fixing too. Unless you type very slowly, it keeps skipping. That just dawned on me. I’ve been looking at the typewriter there in Bessie’s room, trying to remember what Bessie did say on Thanksgiving.”

Alvirah swallowed the last drop of coffee and regretfully declined a second piece of crumb cake. “Let me take a look at that typewriter,” she said.

There were a few sheets of plain paper in Bessie’s desk. Alvirah inserted one into the typewriter carriage and began to type. The carriage skipped several spaces whenever she touched the space bar, forcing her to use the back key constantly. “How long has it been like this?”

“At least since Thanksgiving.”

“Meaning either Bessie typed her will before Thanksgiving-which would have meant that she was lying in her teeth to Monsignor when he saw her the day after Thanksgiving-or she typed it over the weekend, literally one word at a time. Who’s kidding who?”

“But it doesn’t add up to proof, honey,” Willy reminded her. He looked at the stack of boxes against the wall in Bessie’s room. “Kate, can I help you with those?”

“Not yet. There’s one more thing to pack up, and I can’t find it. I put a pink-flowered flannel gown of Bessie’s out to wash, and now it’s disappeared. It had a streak of face powder on it, and I don’t want to let it go out soiled.” She lowered her voice and looked furtively over her shoulder. “You know, if Linda Baker didn’t dress like a dime-a-dance girl, I’d swear Vic might have taken it for her. Now what do you make of that?”

That afternoon, while Willy watched the Giants play the Steelers, Alvirah sat at the dining room table and once again listened to all the taped conversations she had collected concerning Bessie’s will and the townhouse. As she listened she made notes, her brow furrowing as certain remarks jumped out at her.

The score was tied, and the game was in the fourth quarter when she yelled, “I think I figured it out! Willy, Willy, listen to me. Would you have called Bessie a ‘dear, sweet old girl’?”

Willy did not take his eyes off the screen. “No. Never. Not on the best day of her life.”

“Of course not. Because she wasn’t a dear, sweet old girl. She was a tough, stubborn, crusty old girl. But that’s what it’s all about. And after all that trooping around I did with the Gordons, I finally figure it out sitting right here at home.”

Even though the Giants had made a first down and were on the Steelers’ three-yard line, Willy gave Alvirah his full attention. “What did you figure out, honey?”

“The Gordons never laid eyes on Bessie,” Alvirah said triumphantly. “They witnessed somebody else signing that will. Vic and Linda sneaked in a ringer while Bessie was watching her shows.”

Two hours later, Alvirah and Willy arrived at Kate’s townhouse with Jim and Eileen Gordon in tow. They already had alerted Monsignor Ferris and Sisters Cordelia and Maeve Marie to be there, and they found them sitting in the parlor with an equally bewildered Kate.

“Alvirah, what’s all this about?” Cordelia demanded.

“You’ll see. The heirs are joining us, aren’t they?” Alvirah asked.

“The Bakers?” Kate replied. “Yes, I told them you were coming, and that you said you’d have a surprise for them.”

“Wonderful. Kate, you haven’t met these nice people have you? Jim and Eileen Gordon witnessed-or thought they witnessed-Bessie signing the will.”

“Thought they witnessed?” the monsignor said.

“Exactly. Now, Eileen, you tell us what happened when you came in that day,” Alvirah said.

Eileen Gordon, an earnest expression on her pleasant face, said, “Well, if you remember, we had been out with Mr. Baker, showing him a simply beautiful duplex on West Eighty-first, right across from the museum. It’s in one of the finest buildings in the-”

“Eileen,” Alvirah said, struggling to control her irritation, “tell us about witnessing the will.”

“Oh, yes, well, Mrs. Baker had called, and when we arrived here with Mr. Baker, Mrs. Baker asked us to come in quietly. She said there was an elderly lady in the parlor who didn’t like to be disturbed when she was watching her programs. The door was shut, so we tiptoed up the stairs to the bedroom, where Mrs. Maher was waiting for us.”

“Elderly lady in the parlor!” Kate exploded. “That was Bessie!”

“Then who was in the bedroom?” Monsignor Ferris asked.

The Bakers were heard coming down the stairs. “Why don’t we ask Vic?” Alvirah suggested as the couple entered the parlor. “Vic, who was the lady you dressed up in Bessie’s pink-flowered nightgown? An actress? Another cheat who was in on the deal?” Baker opened his mouth to speak, but Alvirah didn’t give him a chance. “I have pictures of Bessie that we took here just a few weeks ago, at Thanksgiving-nice, clear close-ups.” She handed the photos to the Gordons. “Tell them what you told me.”