A.J. inhaled cookie crumbs and spent an agonized couple of seconds coughing before she managed a hoarse, “I’m sorry?”

Stella said, “Elysia’s got a temper when she’s riled.”

“She’s not violent.” She closed off memories of her mother hurling glasses, plates, and, on one memorable occasion, a brass paperweight at her father during some of their livelier arguments. That had been back in the bad old days when alcohol had formed the foundation of Elysia’s daily food pyramid.

Stella, unmoved, said, “She’s always had her own ideas about the law.”

“What does that mean?”

Stella shrugged. “I think Elysia believes laws are for other people.”

A.J. knew her instinctive rejection of this statement was illogical. Certainly Elysia did often behave as though the laws of the land did not apply to her. Sometimes that zany attitude was sort of charming-and sometimes it wasn’t.

“We’re not discussing exceeding the speed limit here, we’re talking about murder. And I can’t see my mother committing cold-blooded murder. She just… wouldn’t.”

“Not cold-blooded murder, I agree,” Stella said. “But if she felt threatened or she was angry enough?”

A.J. stubbornly shook her head despite uneasy memories of the things her mother had done back when she had been drinking. Those things could be attributed to the alcohol. And while it was true that Elysia did rather live in her own world, that was still a far cry from the sort of loss of control Stella was suggesting.

A.J. was marshaling her argument when the phone rang. Stella rose to answer it, returning a few moments later. “That was the Stillbrook Streamer. They were hoping for an interview.”

“Yeah, well, hope springs eternal,” A.J. said shortly.

“That’s pretty much what I told them.”

“Why doesn’t Mr. Meagher call?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Stella replied seriously, “It’s a homicide charge. They might not be able to get bail. Or the judge might decide to set it high, given your ma’s financial resources and nationality.”

A.J. stared in horror. “You don’t think they’ll keep her?”

Stella said gruffly, “I think Jake wanted me here just in case.”

This time A.J. was less touched by Jake’s thoughtfulness.

A.J. spent the afternoon reading through her aunt’s manuscript.

No thinking person can deny that we live in a time of crisis. We look around and witness financial, environmental, and social upheaval. We turn on the television and see a world at war. Our ideals, our very faith in the greater good is challenged. Yet this is also a time of extraordinary spiritual opportunity. It depends on how we respond. At the core of the most painful experiences lie the seeds of philosophical awakening, of epiphany.

A.J. reread the paragraph slowly. It was unexpectedly comforting in her particular time of trouble to read her aunt’s words. Diantha’s memoirs were almost like hearing her speak.

The phone rang off and on, but it was always members of the press. The Stillbrook Streamer, the Star-Ledger, Chicago Sun-Times, the New York Times: the papers mounting in importance as the news of Elysia’s arrest hit the wires. Stella staunchly fended them off but it was clear that even her nerves were growing frayed as the afternoon wore on.

It was after five o’clock when Mr. Meagher finally called, and the news was not good.

“Well, you see, it’s complicated, me wee girl,” he began when A.J. picked up the phone.

“What does that mean?”

“We’re… eh… probably looking at tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? She’s going to have to spend the night in jail. But why?”

“It’s complicated, me darlin’. There’s already a lot of media attention. Too much in the opinion of that great fascist swine of a superior court judge. There’s also the fact that your mither has considerable financial resources-as do you. They’re viewing her as a flight risk.”

“You mean they might not let her out at all?” A.J. felt a childish and utterly disconcerting urge to burst into tears. It had to be the combination of meds and back pain.

“Don’t fret,” Mr. Meagher reassured her quickly. “I’m pulling every bloody favor I ever did anyone in this miserable town.”

A.J. realized then how angry Mr. Meagher was because she’d never heard him speak with anything but love for his adopted country and home. She swallowed down her anger and fear as it was clear he had plenty of his own to deal with.

“So… what do we do?”

“You just rest that back of yours and leave the rest to me. I’ll have her out by tomorrow or me name isn’t Bradley Jamieson Meagher.”

A.J. thanked him sincerely and replaced the phone on the hook with an unsteady hand. Her anger at Jake was now sky-high even though a tiny voice in the back of her mind loyally pointed out that he probably hadn’t had a choice. Part of her wrath was based on the knowledge that he apparently really did suspect her mother capable of such a crime. And even though A.J. had also experienced an uneasy twinge or two maybe partly because of that, it seemed a severe betrayal.

She picked at the chicken noodle casserole Stella had fixed for their dinner, listening with half an ear as the other woman talked about a séance she had conducted for a recently widowed woman.

“I know what people say, what they think, but it brings comfort to my clients to know there’s something on the other side.”

A.J. remembered what Stella had said earlier about being lonely. Loneliness led people into doing all kinds of dangerous and foolish things. Attending séances might even be one of the less foolhardy.

She studied Stella’s weathered face. “Before I met you I thought all séances took place in auditoriums. Well, except the ones in movies.”

“That’s a stage mediumship séance. I don’t have much faith in that. I prefer the personal touch myself.”

A.J. remembered the séance they had held after Aunt Diantha’s death. It had been inconclusive-and a little scary, frankly. But she had seen all kinds of movies where people tried to solve crimes by conducting séances. She tried to picture summoning Dakarai Massri’s spirit. Did he even know who had killed him? Did people go into the afterlife as confused and misinformed as they were in the here and now?

Stella had plenty of ideas on that topic. She was still offering her theories over coffee and creamy rice pudding (Stella being apparently unfamiliar with the concept of low carbs) when Andy, A.J.’s ex, called.

“What the heck is going on down there? It’s all over the TV that Ellie’s been arrested for murder,” Andy demanded, uncharacteristically not even pausing for the usual civilities.

Andy and Elysia had always been close-closer than A.J. and Elysia in fact, even after Andy had left A.J. to be with another man.

“On TV?” gulped A.J.

“Of course. Well, she is a cultural icon,” he added with what A.J. couldn’t help feeling was misplaced pride.

A.J. explained about Dakarai Massri, which took some doing. Andy listened in stunned-and uncharacteristic-silence.

“Your mother is accused of murdering a blackmailing Egyptian gigolo?” Andy repeated a little faintly when she had finished.

A.J. pleaded, “Can we refer to him as a blackmailing Egyptian antiquities expert? It doesn’t sound quite so seedy.”

“It doesn’t?” Andy swallowed loudly enough for A.J. to hear it clear across the New Jersey Turnpike. “So what are you going to do? Prove she’s innocent, I assume?”

That was another reason Andy and Elysia got on so well; they both fancied themselves master detectives, with A.J. as their unwilling Watson. An unhealthy diet of TV mystery shows had persuaded them both that anyone was equipped to investigate major crime.