After the lawyers were gone, Peter said, “I don’t think I want that Banks character on my defense team. Get rid of him, Vince.”

I knew Peter was making a mistake, and fortunately Vincent did, too. He understood that Banks was only preparing Peter for the kind of stinging questions that were coming his way. “Peter, they’ll question you about everything,” he said. “And they’ll make insinuations. You have to get used to it.”

“What you’re telling me is that the fact that I met Grace that night can be used against me, that maybe I fell madly in love with her and decided to kill Susan?” He obviously didn’t expect an answer.

I hoped Vincent Slater would go home; I wanted some quiet time, alone with Peter. We both needed it. But then Peter announced that he was going into the office. “Kay, I have to step aside as CEO and chairman of the company although I will continue to have a major voice in decisions. All my attention has to be given to trying to stay out of prison.” Then he added almost helplessly, “That woman is lying. I swear to you, I remember putting my dress shirt in that hamper.”

He came over to kiss me. I guess I looked pretty worn out myself because he suggested, “Why don’t you try to take a nap, Kay? It’s been one hell of a day.”

Resting was the last thing on my mind. “No,” I said. “I’m going to see Maggie.”

I guess the day had really gotten to Peter, because he said, “Be sure to give her my best, and ask her if she’d like to be a character witness for me at my trial.”

Joining Nicholas Greco and Tom Moran, Barbara Krause flew to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where they rented a car and drove to Maria Valdez Cruz’s home, a modest ranch-style house not far from the airport. It had been snowing there and the roads were slippery, but Greco, because he had already visited the former maid, did the driving. Krause was furious that information about Maria Valdez recanting her previous statement had been leaked to the press. She had vowed to discover the source of the leak and fire the person responsible for it.

“When I was here two days ago, I advised Maria to have her own attorney with her when we come to see her,” Greco reminded them as they rang the doorbell.

And it was that lawyer, Duncan Armstrong, a tall, thin man in his early seventies, who answered the door. Once the visitors were inside, he stood protectively next to his petite client and immediately expressed outrage at the leak to the press.

Moran had been present when they questioned Maria Valdez twenty-two years ago. She was a kid then, he thought, nineteen or so, the same age as Susan Althorp. But she had been stubborn, and wouldn’t budge from her story that she gave that shirt to the cleaner.

Oddly, the firmness and determination she had shown then was missing now. She seemed nervous as she invited her visitors to sit down in the cozy, spotlessly clean living room. “My husband took our daughters to the movies,” she said. “They’re teenagers. I told them you were coming, and explained to them that I had made a mistake and lied to the authorities when I was a young girl, but that it’s never too late to set the record straight.”

“Maria means that she may have been mistaken when you questioned her at the time Susan Althorp disappeared,” Armstrong interjected. “Before we do any further talking, I must see what papers you have prepared.”

“We are offering Mrs. Cruz immunity from prosecution for her full and truthful cooperation regarding this investigation,” Barbara Krause said firmly.

“I’ll take a look at those papers,” Armstrong said. He read them carefully. “Now, Maria, you know this means that at a trial you’ll be called to testify, and the defense attorneys will argue that you’re lying now. But the important thing is that you will not be prosecuted on a charge of giving a false statement originally.”

“I have three daughters,” Cruz replied. “If one of them disappeared and then was found dead, my heart would be broken. When I heard that girl’s body had been found, I felt terrible that my statement may have helped her murderer go free. I admit, though, that I would not have had the courage to speak up if Mr. Greco had not found me.”

“Are you saying you never saw that shirt, and that you did not give it to the cleaner?” Moran asked.

“I never saw the shirt. I knew Mr. Peter Carrington had said it was in the hamper, and I was afraid to contradict him. I was new in the country, and I didn’t want to lose my job. I sent the shirts that were in the hamper to the cleaners, but I was almost certain that his dress shirt had not been there. At that time the police were questioning me, and I thought I could be wrong, but deep down I knew I wasn’t. There was no dress shirt in his hamper. But I told the police that it was there, and that it must have been lost by the cleaner.”

“The man who owned the laundry always swore they never received that shirt,” Barbara Krause said. “Let’s hope he’s still around.”

“If I have to testify, will they think I’m lying now?” Maria asked timidly. “Because I can prove I’m not.”

“Prove? What do you mean prove?” Moran asked.

“I quit the job about a month after I was questioned by the police. I went back to Manila because my mother was very sick. Mr. Carrington senior knew that, and gave me a five thousand dollars ‘bonus,’ as he called it, before I left. He was so grateful I had backed up his son’s story. In fairness to him, I believe he really thought I was telling the truth.”

“I think you’re being too charitable,” Krause said. “That money was a payoff.”

“I cashed the check, but I was afraid that when I came home with so much money, people might say that I had stolen it, so I made a copy of the check, front and back, before I took it to the bank.” Maria reached into the pocket of her jacket. “Here it is,” she said.

Barbara Krause took the copy of the check, reviewed it intently, then handed it to Moran. It was obvious to Greco that they believed it to be bombshell evidence. “Now we know that shirt never went into the hamper,” Krause said. “It’s time to arrest him and go to the grand jury.”

For the first time in days, there was no media hanging around the main gate when I left. I guess if there had been, they had seen Peter and Vincent leave, maybe even had followed them. I had called Maggie and told her I was on my way to see her. She sounded chastened, probably having realized that what she said to the reporter was a low blow, and that I’d be furious.

But it had been over three weeks now since I’d seen her, and the minute I walked in the door I realized how much I’d missed her. The living room was even more cluttered than usual, but Maggie looked great. She was sitting in her favorite chair, watching Judge Judy, nodding in agreement with the just-rendered verdict, a smile on her face. She loved Judge Judy’s outbursts to defendants. The TV was loud because Maggie never will put in her hearing aid, but she heard the door close behind me and sprang up so we could hug each other.

Of course, being Maggie, she got in the first word. “How is he?” she asked.

“By ‘he,’ I assume you mean my husband, Peter. He’s under a great deal of stress and handling it beautifully.”

“Kay, I’m worried about you. He’s a…”

I interrupted her. “Maggie, if you ever use the word to describe Peter that I think you were about to use, I’m out of here, for good.”

She knew I meant what I said. “Let’s have a cup of tea,” she suggested.

A few minutes later I was propped up on the couch and she was back in her chair. We were both holding teacups, and it felt familiar and comfortable and good. I asked about her friends and told her about our honeymoon.

We didn’t talk about Gladys Althorp’s accusation, or the fact that the former maid had changed her story. I was sure Maggie would be on top of those facts. But I did lead the conversation where I wanted it to go. “Maggie, as awful as it is for the Althorps, I’m glad Susan’s body was found. At least it will give her mother some measure of peace.”