“Frankly,” he told me, smoothing his cravat (yes, he wore a cravat) with a wizened hand, “I think if it weren’t for my involvement young Adam would be in over his head. He’s a bright enough boy, but he really lacks the experience to carry this off. And I do get the sense that he had an ax to grind with his stepfather.”

“Tom wasn’t enthusiastic about Adam being involved in the company,” I explained.

“Well, I’m sure he would have approved if he’d known that I’d be on board, guiding young Adam with a sure hand. You know, in a senior statesman sort of role.” I admired his ability to say “senior statesman” without slurring his words. By my count, he had at least four martinis under his belt.

“Did Barbara or Adam say anything about Sara Grenthaler?” I asked. “She does own more than forty percent of the company, and her father was the founder. Tom always intended for her to take over from him when she was ready.”

“Oh, Barbara mentioned that she has a big stake. But she gave me the sense that the girl was a bit of a dilettante. One of those spoiled trust-fund types. Gracious-I’ve seen enough of them, darling. In fact, I almost was one myself.” The unspoken comparison was there, implicit in his words: he, too, could have been mistaken for a spoiled trust-fund type-that is, before he became a takeover artist and media mogul in his eighth decade of life. “Anyhow, Barbara assured me that she wouldn’t be a problem.”

Once again, Whitaker was vague on the timing of Barbara’s comments about Sara. But I sensed my opening and went for it. “So, Whit, are you financing the entire bid single-handedly?”

“Why, yes, yes, I am,” he answered proudly.

“That’s a pretty big chunk of change to lock up in one deal.”

“Well, yes, it is. And I’m sure my advisors will all act like nervous Nellies and counsel me against it. You know how they are about putting all of one’s eggs in the same basket. But how often does a fabulous opportunity like this come along?” He signaled for yet another martini. I was still on my second Diet Coke, although I’d made short work of the burger and fries.

“Not often,” I agreed. “But, you could be part of the majority ownership consortium without using up all of your eggs.”

This point seemed to reach its mark, although I was starting to feel buzzed just watching the Caped Avenger down his most recent martini.

“What do you mean?” he asked. The Caped Avenger was too rich to have missed out on the cheap gene that seemed to accompany so many great fortunes. He’d bragged to me on several occasions about having his capes made by a Hong Kong tailor for a mere fraction of what he’d have to pay in New York or London. And I’d just suggested to him that he could get something he wanted for less than he thought he’d have to pay for it. Whitaker Jamieson might not be the sort of white knight found in fairy tales, but if I could convince him to withdraw his support and partner with Sara instead to finance her acquisition of an additional ten percent stake, the company would be safe from a potential takeover, even if the Barnetts did manage to scramble up another source of backing.

The Caped Avenger was intrigued, or at least he seemed to be intrigued through his vodka-induced haze. He assured me he’d give it some thought. And then he blinked. But his eyes stayed shut. A moment later, he was snoring gently, seated upright on the banquette.

I picked up the tab, including a generous tip. The bar had cleared out, and the waiter said he’d keep an eye on Whitaker. I took one last look at him before I left. I hoped that somewhere in his drunken snooze he was thinking about my pitch and debating its merits. He probably hadn’t noticed that I’d essentially thrown myself on his mercy, but that was pretty much what I’d done. If he didn’t switch sides, my side’s goose was well on its way to being cooked.

The doorman flagged down a cab for me, and I asked the driver to take me to Harvard Square. My wallet was stuffed with cab receipts already, and I hadn’t even been in Boston for seventy-two hours. My trip was turning out far differently than I’d imagined, I thought, remembering how contentedly I’d anticipated the weekend when I’d been on the shuttle up from New York. Instead of romantic room-service meals, I’d been in one taxi after another going from one frustrating encounter to another. And here I was, off to have yet another unpleasant discussion. It was all my fault, really. I should have known better than to anticipate a trip with such pleasure. It was a guaranteed way to screw up even the most carefully laid plans. At least I’d ensured that the police were investigating the Barnetts and tracking down Jonathan Beasley.

Still, I wasn’t looking forward to updating Sara about the takeover attempt, but I’d told the Porters and Brian Mulcahey I’d take care of it-in fact, I’d insisted on it. I was determined not to let her panic, and even though I was panicking, I felt that I stood a better chance of reassuring her on this front than they did. Sara had enough to worry about, just getting well. A thwack on the head and cardiac arrest in less than two days couldn’t be good for a person.

Although, at the rate I was going, enforced bed rest didn’t sound so bad.

I used the downtime in the cab to make a phone call. I knew it was probably futile, but I owed it to Sara to explore every option, and that included Barbara Barnett. Just because I suspected she was a frustrated murderer didn’t preclude my making an attempt, however vain, to try to talk her out of launching a takeover and into respecting the wishes of her late husband instead. And it wasn’t like she had any reason to try to kill me.

Barbara answered the phone herself, which surprised me. She didn’t seem like the type to give the maid weekends off. She greeted me warmly, as if there were no sides in this struggle but we were instead one big happy family. I’d barely identified myself before I was treated to a breathless spiel about how exciting it all was and wasn’t Adam impressive this morning? I made noncommittal noises until her words finally slowed to a trickle, at which point I asked if it would be possible to get together and talk.

“Why, I’d love to, honey, but I’m just booked today,” she drawled. “I’ve got a hair appointment and then the yoga instructor comes by and then I’m due at a drinks party.” One would never have guessed that her husband had died only eight days ago. She seemed to be taking the term “Merry Widow” to heart. As if reading my thoughts, she continued on. “You know, Tom’s death has been so hard on me. I miss him every minute of the day, but I’ve been trying to keep myself busy. And all of this excitement with the company has really given me a new lease on life. It’s so wonderful to have something to look forward to, honey.”

“I bet,” I said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Tom would be rolling over in his grave if he knew what was happening. Although, if he’d been cremated then I guessed he didn’t have a grave. And, so soon after lunch, I didn’t want to imagine how his ashes might be reacting. “How about tomorrow morning?” I suggested. After all, it wasn’t like I’d be spending the time snuggling in bed with Peter, assuming he was even there. And I’d make sure that plenty of people knew where I was going, just in case Barbara did decide that there was a reason she wanted me dead.

She agreed that tomorrow morning would be fine before launching into a reprisal of her favorite song, titled “My Son the Tycoon.” Its various verses and repeated chorus kept me on the phone until the cab reached Harvard Square.

The elevator ride to the fifth-floor infirmary was beginning to give me a feeling of déjà vu, and the nurse at reception gave me a familiar wave, as if we were old friends. This really wasn’t turning into the weekend I’d planned.