“You’re right.”

“Well, it won’t work.”

“Damn shame.” He looked at his Timex. “Been here a quarter hour and I’ve done diddly. Wanna stand around talking or work?”

“Work,” she said. “Of course-”

“Her room,” said Milo.

“Over here. C’mon.” She ran down the hall, all traces of sleepiness gone.

Milo watched her and muttered something I couldn’t make out.

We followed her.

She’d reached the door, was holding it open. “Here,” she said. “I’ll show you where everything is.”

Milo walked into the sitting room. I went in after him.

She slid past me and faced Milo, blocking the door to the bedroom. “One more thing.”

“What?”

“I’m paying you. Not Don. So treat me like an adult.”

Milo said, “If you don’t like the way I’m treating you, I’m sure you’ll let me know. In terms of payment, work it out with him.”

He pulled out his pad again and looked around the sitting room. Went to the gray couch. Poked at the pillows, ran his hand under them. “What is this, a waiting room for visitors?”

“A sitting room,” said Melissa. “She didn’t have visitors. My father designed it this way because he thought it was genteel. It used to be different- very elegant, lots more furniture- but she cleaned it out and put this in. She ordered it from a catalogue. She’s basically a simple person. This is really her favorite place- she spends most of her time here.”

“Doing what?”

“Reading- she reads a lot. Loves to read. And she exercises- there’s equipment back there.” Crooking a finger in the direction of the bedroom.

Milo peered at the Cassatt.

I said, “How long’s she had that print, Melissa?”

“My father gave it to her. When she was pregnant with me.”

“Did he have other Cassatts?”

“Probably. He had lots of works on paper. They’re stored upstairs on the third floor. To keep them out of the sunlight. That’s why it’s perfect for here. No windows.”

“No windows,” said Milo. “That doesn’t bother her?”

“She’s a sunny person,” said Melissa. “She makes her own light.”

“Uh-huh.” He went back to the gray couch. Removed the cushions and put them back.

I said, “How long ago did she change the decor?”

Both of them looked at me.

“Just curious,” I said. “About any changes she might have made recently.”

Melissa said, “It was recent. A few months ago- three or four. The stuff that was in here was Father’s taste- really ornamental. She had it put up on the third floor, in storage. Told me she felt kind of guilty because Father had spent so much time picking it out. But I told her it was okay- it was her place; she should do what she wanted.”

Milo opened the door to the bedroom and stepped through.

I heard him say, “She didn’t change this too much, did she?”

Melissa hurried after him. I walked in, last.

He was standing in front of the canopied bed. Melissa said, “I guess she likes it the way it is.”

“Guess so,” said Milo.

The room seemed even bigger from the inside. At least twenty-five feet square, with fifteen-foot ceilings embroidered with crown moldings fashioned to resemble braided cloth. A six-foot white marble mantel was topped with a gold clock and a menagerie of miniature silver birds. A gold eagle sat perched atop the clock, eyeing the smaller fowl. Groupings of Empire chairs upholstered in olive-green silk damask, a baroque threefold screen painted in trompe l’oeil flowers, a scattering of tiny gold-inlaid tables of doubtful function, paintings of country scenes and bosomy maidens with uncertainty in their eyes.

The braids snaked toward the center of the ceiling, terminating in a plaster knot from which a crystal and silver chandelier dangled like a giant watch fob. The bed was covered with a quilted off-white satin spread. Tapestry pillows were arranged at the head in a precise overlapping row, like fallen dominoes. A silk robe lay neatly across the foot. The bed was set on a pedestal, adding to its already considerable height. The finials of the posts nearly touched the ceiling.

Weak light shone from crystal wall sconces beside the bed, transforming the off-white color scheme to the color of English mustard, and turning the plum carpeting gray. Milo flipped a switch and flooded the room with the high-watt glare of the chandelier.

He looked under the bed, straightened, and said, “You could eat off it. When was the room made up?”

“Probably this morning. Mother usually does it herself- not the vacuuming or anything strenuous. But she likes to make her own bed. She’s very neat.”

I followed his glance to the chinoiserie nightstands. Ivory pseudo-antique phones on both. Bud vase with red rose centered on the one to the left. A hardcover book next to it.

All the draperies were drawn. Milo went to one of the casement windows, pulled aside the curtains, cranked, and looked out. Fresh air puffed in.

After studying the view for a while, he turned, walked to the left side of the bed, picked up the book, and opened it. Skimmed a few pages, turned it upside down, and gave it a couple of shakes. Nothing fell out. Opening the door of the stand, he bent and peered in. Empty.

I went over and looked at the book’s front cover. Paul Theroux’s Patagonia Express.

Melissa said, “It’s a travel book.”

Milo said nothing, kept looking around.

The wall opposite the bed was occupied by a nine-foot walnut-and-gilt armoire and a wide carved fruitwood dresser inlaid with marquetry herbs and flowers. Perfume bottles and a marble clock sat atop the dresser. Milo opened the top section of the armoire. Inside was a color TV, a Sony 19-inch that looked to be at least ten years old. Atop the television was a TV Guide. Milo opened it, flipped through it. The bottom of the armoire was empty.

“No VCR?” he said.

“She doesn’t go in for movies much.”

He moved down to the dresser, slid open drawers, ran his hands through satin and silk.

Melissa watched for several moments, then said, “What exactly are you looking for?”

“Where does she keep the rest of her clothes?”

“Over there.” She pointed to carved swinging doors on the left side of the room. Indian rosewood doors inlaid with vines of copper and brass and topped with a motif that conjured up the Taj Mahal.

Milo shoved them open unceremoniously.

On the other side was a short, squat foyer with three more doors. The first opened to a green marble bathroom accented with champagne-tinted mirrors and equipped with a sunken whirlpool tub expansive enough for family bathing, gold fixtures, green marble commode and bidet. The medicine cabinet was camouflaged as just another mirrored panel. Milo pushed, looked inside. Aspirin, toothpaste, shampoo, lipstick tubes, a few jars of cosmetics. Half-empty.

“She take anything as far as you can tell?”

Melissa shook her head. “This is all she keeps. She doesn’t use much makeup.”

Beyond the second door was a room-sized closet outfitted with a makeup table and padded bench at the center and organized as precisely as a surgical scrub tray: champagne-colored padded hangers, all facing the same way. Two walls of cedar, two of pink damask. Double-hung hardwood dowels.

Clothes organized by type, but there wasn’t much to organize. Mostly one-piece dresses in pale colors. A few gowns and furs at the back, some still bearing their sales labels. Perhaps ten pairs of shoes, three of them sneakers. A collection of sweats folded in storage compartments along the back wall. No more than a quarter of the dowel-space filled.

Milo took his time there, checking pockets, kneeling and inspecting the floor beneath the garments. Finding nothing and going into the third room.

Combination library and gym. The walls lined floor to ceiling with oak shelves, the floor high-lacquer hardwood tile. Interlocking rubber mats covered the front half. A stationary bicycle, rowing machine, and motorized treadmill sat on the rubber along with a free-standing rack of low-weight, chrome-plated dumbbells. A cheap digital watch hung from the handlebars of the bike. Two unopened bottles of Evian water stood atop a small refrigerator alongside the weight rack. Milo opened it. Empty.