A couple of hundred feet back, to the left of the court, was a long, low peach-colored building that resembled a stable: ten or so wooden doors, some of them ajar, backing a wide cobbled courtyard filled with gleaming, long-nosed antique automobiles. Amoeboid pools of water dotted the cobblestones. A figure in gray overalls bent over one of the cars, chamois in hand, buffing the flaring ruby-colored fender of a splendid piece of machinery. From the blower pipes, I guessed it was a Duesenberg and asked Melissa for confirmation.

“Yes,” she said, “that’s what it is,” and keeping her eyes straight ahead, she led me back through the art-filled caverns, toward the front of the house.

“I don’t know,” she said suddenly. “It just seems that so many things start off beautiful and turn hateful. It’s as if being beautiful can be a curse.”

I said, “McCloskey?”

She put both hands in the pockets of her jeans and gave an emphatic nod. “I’ve been thinking about him a lot.”

“More than before?”

“A lot more. Since we talked.” She stopped, turned to me, blinked hard. “Why would he come back, Dr. Delaware? What does he want?”

“Maybe nothing, Melissa. Maybe it means nothing. If anyone can find out, my friend can.”

“I hope so,” she said. “I certainly hope so. When can he start?”

“I’ll have him call you as soon as possible. His name is Milo Sturgis.”

“Good name,” she said. “Solid.”

“He’s a solid guy.”

We resumed walking. A big, broad woman in a white uniform was polishing a tabletop, feather duster in one hand, rag in the other. Open tin of paste wax near her knee. She turned her face slightly and our eyes met. Madeleine, grayer and wrinkled but still strong-looking. A grimace of recognition tightened her face; then she showed me her back and resumed her work.

Melissa and I stepped back into the entry hall. She headed for the green stairway. As she touched the handrail I said, “In terms of McCloskey, are you concerned about your own safety?”

“Mine?” she said, pausing with one foot on the first step. “Why should I be?”

“No reason. But you were just talking about beauty as a curse. Do you feel burdened or threatened by your own looks?”

“Me?” Her laughter was too quick, too loud. “Come on, Dr. D. Let’s go upstairs. I’ll show you beautiful.”

The top of the landing was a twenty-foot rosette of black marble inlaid with a blue-and-yellow sunburst pattern. French provincial furniture hugged the walls, potbellied, bowlegged, almost obscene with marquetry. Renaissance paintings of the Sentimental School- cherubs, harps, religious agony- competed with flocked-velvet paper the color of old port. Foot-wide white molding and coving defined three hallway spokes. Two more women in white vacuumed the one on the right. The other corridors were dark and empty. More like a hotel than a museum. The sad, aimless ambience of a resort during the off-season.

Melissa turned onto the middle corridor and led me past five white panel doors adorned with black and gold cloisonnÉ knobs.

At the sixth, she stopped and knocked.

A voice from within said, “Yes?”

Melissa said, “Dr. Delaware’s here,” and opened the door.

I’d been ready for another megadose of grandeur but found myself in a small, simple room- a sitting area, no more than twelve feet square, painted dove-gray and lit by a single overhead milk-glass fixture.

A white door took up a quarter of the rear wall. The other walls were bare except for a single lithograph: A softly colored mother-and-child scene that had to be Cassatt. The print was centered over a rose-colored, gray-piped loveseat. A pine coffee table and two pine chairs created a conversation area. Bone-china coffee service on the table. Woman on the couch.

She stood and said, “Hello, Dr. Delaware. I’m Gina Ramp.”

Soft voice.

She came forward, her walk a curious mix of grace and awkwardness. The awkwardness was all above the neck- her head was held unnaturally high and tilted to one side, as if recoiling from a blow.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Ramp.”

She took my hand, gave it a quick, gentle squeeze and let go.

She was tall- had at least eight inches on her daughter- and still model-slender, in a knee-length, long-sleeved dress of polished gray cotton. Front-buttoned to the neck. Patch pockets. Flat-heeled gray sandals. A plain gold wedding band on her free hand. Gold balls in her ears. No other jewelry. No perfume.

The hair was medium-blond and starting to silver. She wore it short and straight, brushed forward with feathered bangs. Boyish. Almost ascetic.

Her face was pale, oval, made for the camera. Strong, straight nose, firm chin, wide gray-blue eyes stippled with green. The pouty allure of an old studio photo replaced by something more mature. More relaxed. Slight surrender of contour, the merest sag at the seams. Smile lines, brow furrows, a suggestion of pouch at the junction of lips and cheek.

Forty-three years old, I knew from an old newspaper clipping, and she looked every day of it. Yet age had softened her beauty. Enhanced it, somehow.

She turned to her daughter and smiled. Lowered her head, almost ritualistically, and showed me the left side of her face.

Skin stretched tight, bone-white and glassy-smooth. Too smooth- the unhealthy sheen of fever-sweat. The jawline sharper than it should have been. Subtly skeletal, as if stripped of an underlying layer of musculature and refurbished with something artificial. Her left eye drooped, very slightly but noticeably, and the skin beneath it was scored with a dense network of white filaments. Scars that seemed to be floating just beneath the surface of her skin- a suspension of threadworms swimming in flesh-colored gelatin.

The neck-flesh just below the jaw was ruled with three ruddy stripes- as if she’d been slapped hard and the finger marks had lingered. The left side of her mouth was preternaturally straight, offering harsh counterpart to the weary eye and giving her smile a lopsided cast that projected an uninvited irony.

She shifted her head again. Her skin caught the light at a different angle, and took on the marbled look of a tea-soaked egg.

Off-kilter. Beauty defiled.

She said to Melissa, “Thank you, darling,” and gave a crooked smile. Part of the left side didn’t smile along.

I realized that- just for the moment- I’d blocked out Melissa’s presence. I turned, with a smile for her. She was staring at us, a hard, watchful look on her face. Suddenly, she turned up the corners of her mouth, forced herself to join in the smile-fest.

Her mother said, “Come here, baby,” and went to her, holding out her arms. Hugging her. Using her height to advantage, cradling, stroking Melissa’s long hair.

Melissa stepped back and looked at me, flushed.

Gina Ramp said, “I’ll be fine, baby. Go on.”

Melissa said, “Have fun,” in a voice on the verge of cracking. Gave one more look back and walked out.

Leaving the door open. Gina Ramp walked over and closed it.

“Please make yourself comfortable, Doctor,” she said, readjusting the tilt of her face so that only the good side was visible. She gestured toward the china service. “Coffee?”

“No, thanks.” I sat in one of the chairs. She returned to the loveseat. Sat perched at the edge, back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, hands in lap- the identical posture Melissa had adopted at my house yesterday.

“So,” she said, smiling again. She leaned forward to adjust one of the teacups, spent more time at it than she had to.

I said, “Good to meet you, Mrs. Ramp.”

A pained look fought with the smile and won. “Finally?”

Before I could answer, she said, “I’m not a terrible person, Dr. Delaware.”

“Of course you aren’t,” I said. Too emphatically. It made her start and take a long look at me. Something about her- about this place- was screwing up my timing. I sat back and kept my mouth shut. She recrossed her legs and shifted her head, as if in response to stage direction. Showing me only her right profile. Stiff and defensively genteel, like a First Lady on a talk show.