Joe’s Restaurant? Logan stopped short, giving the place another once-over. There was no menu fixed beside the door; nothing to reassure him that he, in fact, was not about to endure a most disagreeable dining experience.

And then, from around the corner, Pamela Flood came into view. She was dressed simply, in a red-and-white striped blouse and capri pants, and she had a bottle of white wine tucked under one arm. Seeing Logan, she broke into a smile. “Glad you found the place okay.”

He glanced back at the underwhelming facade. “Actually, I wasn’t sure I had.”

Pamela laughed delightedly. “You just wait and see.”

She led the way into a tiny restaurant that held six tables, all but one occupied. Immediately, a middle-aged bearded man in torn dungarees came over. “Miss Flood!” he said. “Nice to see you.”

“Joe,” she said with a smile and a nod, handing him the bottle.

“Your table is ready and waiting.” And the man led them to the lone empty table and helped them into their seats.

Logan looked around. The small space was sparsely furnished, with nothing but a few prize fish mounted on the walls. The other diners were obviously local; there wasn’t a tourist in sight. No surprise there, he thought.

He realized that Pamela was speaking to him. He stopped his survey of the restaurant and looked back at her. “I’m sorry?”

“I was just saying you look a little weary,” she said. “And distracted.”

“Sorry about that. Long day.”

The man named Joe came back and poured them both glasses of Pam’s bottle of Pouilly-Fumé. Then he took a step back and looked from one to the other expectantly.

“Know what you want?” Pam asked him.

“But I haven’t seen the menu yet,” Logan replied.

She laughed again. “There’s no menu at Joe’s.”

Seeing Logan’s confusion, Joe waded in. “Only thing on the menu is fish,” he said. “Caught local today, prepared to your specification.”

“I see,” Logan said. “What kind of fish, exactly?”

Joe looked skyward, assembling a mental list. “Black sea bass, cusk, fluke, haddock, mackerel, halibut, pollack, shad—”

“Okay,” Logan interrupted lightly, chuckling. The headache that had been gathering around his temples all day seemed to be receding. He gestured toward Pam. “After you.”

“Fillet of haddock, please, Joe,” she said immediately. “Poached in a court bouillon.”

“Very good.” Joe turned back to Logan.

“You did say, prepared to my specification?” Logan asked.

“Broiled, grilled, steamed, seared, sautéed, fried, baked, blackened, breaded, meunière, bonne femme, Provençal.” The man shrugged as if this was just the tip of the iceberg.

“I’ll try the sea bass,” Logan said. “Grilled.”

“Thank you.” And Joe turned away.

“Interesting place,” Logan said. He took a sip of the wine, found it excellent.

“Best seafood in New England,” Pam replied. “But you won’t find it in any guidebook or Internet dining site. We Newporters keep it to ourselves.”

Logan took another sip of wine. “Speaking of Newport, what projects are you working on at present?”

Pam didn’t need any further encouragement. Immediately, she began describing not only the project she was currently engaged in — the conversion of a Thames Street cannery into condominiums — but also her dreams for a large-scale waterfront renovation that would balance the needs of local inhabitants, tourists, commerce, and the fishing industry. It was an ambitious and interesting plan, and as Logan listened the last vestiges of his headache melted away. Their fish arrived — Logan sampled his sea bass, decided it was perfectly prepared — and the talk shifted to himself and how he had fallen into the odd, self-developed profession of enigmalogist. Pam was not only a good talker but a good listener; she laughed easily, and her laugh was infectious; and it wasn’t until Joe had taken away their plates (no desserts offered) and brought cups of fresh coffee that Logan realized they had finished their dinner without ever bringing up the subject that had supposedly brought them together this evening.

“Well?” he said, lifting his coffee cup.

“Well what?”

“Now I know all about you, and you know all about me. And I’m all ears.”

“Oh. Yes.” Pam smiled a little impishly. “I did some digging around this morning through my great-grandfather’s papers.”

“And?”

“And I found some references to your secret room.”

Logan put down his cup. “You did?”

Pam nodded. “It was added to the mansion at the request of Edward Delaveaux. Not only that, but Delaveaux was very specific. He had precise measurements, building materials, and even the location within the main massing of the West Wing.”

“Any explanation as to why, or what it was to be used for?”

“No. It seems my great-grandfather asked, but was never told. But then, Delaveaux was famously eccentric. You know about his mini Stonehenge, of course.”

Logan nodded. “Any additional architectural plans for the room? Specific blueprints or elevations that might shed more light on things?”

“No, just some rough sketches. But here’s the thing.” And she leaned forward conspiratorially. “I think I know how to get in.”

“What? You mean, how to access it?”

She nodded.

“How?”

Pam hesitated. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

Another hesitation. “Well, maybe a little of both. But in order to show you how to get in, I’m going to have to come out to Lux and do it in person.”

“Oh, no. Sorry, but that’s out of the question.”

Pam looked at him searchingly. “Why?”

“Lux is famously reclusive. They’re not going to want an outsider looking into this — especially at such a delicate time.”

“But I’m not an outsider. I consulted extensively with Strachey on the redesign.”

“That’s the problem right there. Strachey — and what happened to him.”

The table went silent for a moment. Pam poured cream into her coffee, stirred. “I’m not being coy here,” she said. “I don’t know enough to tell you how to do it. Some of my great-grandfather’s notes on the room’s construction are a little confusing. I need to see it with my own eyes in order for those notes to make sense.”

“Olafson’s not going to want to okay this. He made a big enough fuss when I asked for an assistant.”

“Just tug on your forelock and look put out. Like you’re doing right now. It’s quite becoming. I’m sure it’ll do the trick.”

Logan paused, realized he was in fact playing with a lock of hair, and immediately let go. Pam giggled.

He shook his head. He couldn’t help but admire this woman’s intelligence and tenacity — not to mention attractiveness.

“Okay,” he said. “No promises. But I’ll give it a shot.”

And when they parted outside the restaurant, he kissed her good night.

It was a few minutes after nine the following evening when a figure flitted across the moon-washed greensward that led down from Lux to the ocean. Reaching the deeper shadow of the mansion itself, the figure kept to the darkness of the bushes as it made its way along the rear facade to a small door with a single light beside it. The figure paused a moment, then rapped quietly on the door.

It was opened immediately by Jeremy Logan, who stepped out into the darkness and closed it behind him.

The figure — Pamela Flood — came closer. She held a small leather briefcase in one hand. “Okay. I followed your instructions. Now I feel like an actor in a bad spy film. Just what was it you wouldn’t tell me over the phone?”

“Just this. After thinking about it some more, I realized Olafson would either say no to your presence here, or else announce that he’d have to take it up with the board.”

“I told you, he knows I worked with Strachey. What’s the problem?”