My car is a rented Taurus that I park beside the gatehouse, so she knows when I’m home, but she hasn’t stopped by with home-baked brownies.

I don’t actually follow her movements, and it’s rare that I’ve seen her car passing by in the last week. The only other car I’ve noticed is a Mercedes that belongs to Mr. Nasim, the owner of the mansion. What I’m getting at is that I don’t think Susan has a boyfriend. But if she did, I wouldn’t be surprised, and I wouldn’t care.

As for my love life, I’d been totally abstinent during my three-year cruise around the world. Except, of course, when I was in port, or when I had a female crew member aboard. In fact, I was a piggy.

I suppose there are all sorts of complex psychological reasons for my overindulgence, having to do with Susan’s adultery and all that. Plus, the salt air makes me horny.

But I had calmed down considerably in London, partly as a result of my job, which required a suit and a bit of decorum, and partly as a result of having gotten rid of the sailboat, and not being able to use clever lines like, “Do you want to sail with me on my yacht to Monte Carlo?”

Anyway, for my last year or so in London, I’ve had a lady friend. More on that later.

I stoked the fire, then freshened my coffee with cognac.

Regarding the former Mrs. Sutter, as it stands now, neither of us has called on the other, nor have we bumped into each other on the property or in the village, but I know we’ll meet at Ethel’s funeral. To be honest, I’d half expected that she’d come by to say hello. Probably she had the same expectation.

This place is heavy on etiquette and protocol, and I wondered how Emily Post would address this situation. “Dear Ms. Post, My wife was fucking a Mafia don, then she shot and killed him, and we got divorced, and we both moved out of the state and met other people whom we didn’t kill. Now we find ourselves as neighbors, and we’re both alone, so should I bake brownies and welcome her to the neighborhood? Or should she do that? (Signed) Confused on Long Island.”

And Ms. Post might reply, “Dear COLI, A gentleman should always call on the lady, but always phone or write ahead – and make sure she’s gotten rid of that gun! Keep the conversation light, such as favorite movies (but not The Godfather) or sports or hobbies (but not target shooting), and don’t overstay your visit unless you have sex. (Signed) Emily Post.”

Well, I think I’m being silly. In any case, my children are bugging me about calling her. “Have you seen Mom yet?” I’m sure they ask her the same question.

I’d actually seen Susan a few times over the last decade since we’d both left Long Island – at our children’s college graduations, for instance, and at the funeral of my aunt Cornelia, who was fond of Susan. And on these occasions, Susan and I had always been polite and cordial to each other. In fact, she had been friendlier to me than I to her, and I had the impression she had gotten over me and moved on. I, on the other hand… well, I don’t know. And I had no intention of finding out.

On the subject of funerals, I’d attended Frank Bellarosa’s funeral because… Well, I actually liked the guy, despite the fact that he was a criminal, a manipulator, a sociopathic liar, and my wife’s lover. Other than that, he wasn’t a bad guy. In fact, he was charming and charismatic. Ask Susan.

Also on the subject of funerals, the one I was really excited about attending was the one for William Stanhope. But last I heard from Edward, “Grandpa’s feeling pretty good.” That’s too bad.

I picked up the stack of photos again and flipped through them. She really was beautiful and sexy. Smart and funny, too. And, as I said, delightfully nutty.

As I stared at a particularly sexy photo of Susan mounted naked on her stupid horse, Zanzibar, the doorbell rang.

Like most gatehouses, this one is built inside the estate wall, so no one can come to my door unless they pass through the iron gates that face the road. The gates remain closed at night, and they are automated, so you need a code or a remote control to open them, and I can usually hear them or see the headlights at night, which I hadn’t. Therefore, whoever was at my door had come on foot from the estate grounds, and the only current residents of the estate were Amir Nasim, his wife, their live-in help, Susan, and me.

So it could be Mr. Nasim at my door, perhaps to pay a social call, or to inform me that Ethel died two minutes ago, and I had ten minutes to move out. Or possibly it was Susan.

I slipped the photos back into the envelope and walked into the small front foyer as the bell rang again.

I checked myself out in the hallway mirror, straightened my polo shirt and finger-combed my hair. Then, without looking through the peephole or turning on the outside light, I unbolted the door and swung it open.

Standing there, staring at me, was the ghost of Frank Bellarosa.

He said, “Do you remember me?”

It was not, of course, the ghost of Frank Bellarosa. It was Frank’s son Tony, whom I had last seen at his father’s funeral, ten years ago.

I get annoyed when people ask, “Do you remember me?” instead of having the common courtesy to introduce themselves. But this, I suspected, was not Tony Bellarosa’s most irritating social flaw, nor his only one. I replied, “Yes, I remember you.” I added, in case he thought I was winging it, “Tony Bellarosa.”

He smiled, and I saw Frank again. “Anthony. It’s Anthony now.” He inquired, “You got a minute?”

I had several replies, none of which contained the word “Yes.” I asked him, “What can I do for you?”

He seemed a little put off, then asked, “Can I come in? Oh…” He seemed suddenly to have thought of the only logical explanation for my slow response to the doorbell and my not being thrilled to see him, and he asked, “You got somebody in there?”

A nod and a wink would have sent him on his way, but I didn’t reply.

“Mr. Sutter?”

Well, you’re not supposed to invite a vampire to cross your threshold, and I think the same rule applies for sons of dead Mafia dons. But for reasons that are too complex and too stupid to go into, I said, “Come in.”

I stepped aside, and Anthony Bellarosa entered the gatehouse and my life. I closed the door and led young Anthony into the small sitting room.

I indicated a rocking chair – Ethel’s chair – near the ash-heaped fireplace, and I took George’s threadbare wingback chair facing my guest. I did not offer him a drink.

Anthony did a quick eye-recon of the room, noting, I’m sure, the shabby furnishings, the faded wallpaper, and the worn carpet.

Also, he may have been evaluating some personal security issues. His father used to do this, more out of habit than paranoia. Frank Bellarosa also had an unconscious habit of checking out every female in the room while he was checking to see if anyone might want to kill him. I admire people who can multitask.

In the case of Susan Sutter, however, Frank had missed some crucial clues and signs of trouble. If I could speculate about those last few minutes of Frank Bellarosa’s life, I’d guess that the blood in Frank’s big brain had flowed south into his little brain at a critical moment. It happens. And when it does, the rest of your blood can wind up splattered around the room, as happened to poor Frank.

Anthony said, “Nice little place here.”

“Thank you.” In fact, these old estate gatehouses looked quaint and charming on the outside, but most of them were claustrophobic. I don’t know how I managed to share this cottage with Ethel, even for the short time I was here. I recall going out a lot.

Anthony asked me, “You lived here for a while. Right?”

“Right.”

“And you’re back from London. Right?”

I wondered how he knew that.