April blew her breath out as Brenda led the way through a door into a dark wood-paneled library where the walls were lined with a collection of books that looked as old as the paintings in the hall. Ms. Bassett turned and seated herself in one of several leather wing chairs, and April got to see her face. Her features were all angles. She had a long, straight nose, slab-sided cheekbones, a sharp chin, and razor-blade lips-the kind that couldn't be improved with lipstick. Her hair was black and blunt-cut.

The man, who stood near the desk, was five-eight, and had a heavy build, no chin, little hair, and moist pink lips set in soft round cheeks. April didn't have to examine him closely to catch the dazed look of an all-night drinker who'd been forced out into the daylight way too early. Boyfriend, brother, lawyer? A messy pile of papers and other small items on the desk indicated that a search had been in process. The man put some space between himself and the desk and sat gingerly in another wing chair.

"I'm Sergeant April Woo. And this is Detective Baum," April said. Woody took his at-ease position by the door, and she waited for a cue to sit. It didn't come.

"Well, this is my brother, Burton Bassett, I'm Brenda Bassett. What do you want?" the woman asked bluntly.

Burton put a hand to his head. "Gently, sister," he said in a pained tone.

Not a lawyer. Brother and sister. April quickly formed the impression that the genders of the Bassett siblings had been reversed. Brenda was the strong and pushy yang; Burton was the passive, yielding yin. Neither appeared to be in mourning for their father or stepmother. Suddenly new links between the Bernardino and Bassett murders occurred to April. Both victims' names began with B, both spouses of the victims had the money and had died first of natural causes. Both had two adult children, a boy and a girl. What else?

What, boss? Woody's body language told her he was trying to read her orders. "Do you need something to drink, Sergeant?" he asked out loud. Their code for, Do you want to separate them?

"Thank you, Detective. In a minute," April replied.

Neither Bassett offered her any water.

"I was at home last night," Brenda said, "if that's what you want to know." She smirked.

"I was out with friends, till… quite late." Burton actually yawned.

Brenda glared at him suddenly. "Birdie was a nice woman. She didn't deserve to die like that." Her mouth shut like a clamshell, then opened again. "Do we need a lawyer? You're not reading us our rights, are you?"

April smiled. People always jumped to conclusions. "We just need some background about your stepmother."

"Well, I don't know how much we can help you. We weren't close."

"When was the last time you saw Mrs. Bassett?"

"Dad's funeral. She was pretty out of it." This came from Burton, who looked pretty out of it himself.

"That would be when?"

"A month ago, something like that."

April frowned. Lorna died a month before Bernie was killed. What did the length of time between the natural death and the murder tell them about the perpetrator? "What day?"

"I don't remember." Brenda turned to her brother. "What day did Daddy die? I'm so upset with this-"

Burton shrugged. "Thursday? No, I was playing golf Thursday. It had to be Friday."

"Yes, it was Friday. But I can't remember the date." Brenda Bassett's mouth made an astonished O. "I've lost track of time."

"We'll need the time frames," April told her, as if they wouldn't know pretty much everything about them by dinnertime. Hagedorn would hack into their lives until nothing was secret.

"For God's sake, why?" Brenda made some noise with her breathing.

"How was she doing with your father's death?" April didn't bother to answer the question.

"I have no idea," Brenda said indignantly. "It's not like I knew her. I didn't know her. I mean, I'd seen her a couple of times a year. At family events. Thanksgiving, things like that.." Her voice was strong and angry. Maybe she hadn't liked being excluded.

"Did you speak to her after the funeral?" April asked.

"About what?" Brenda made a face, then lifted a shoulder.

"Your father's will, arrangements for…" April let her hand reference the rifled desk, the contents of the apartment.

"No, is the correct answer," Burton told her. "We did not speak to Birdie. She didn't speak to us. We don't know who her little friends and associates might be. We never knew what she did from day to day. We don't know why she would go to a dinner at York U. None of us went there; we didn't support the place."

"How do you know it was a York dinner?" April asked.

This time Burton made the O with his mouth.

"Someone called us," Brenda said quietly. "Someone from there, a dean or someone."

"That's how you heard?" April took out her notebook and began to write.

"Of course that's how we heard." Brenda frowned at her brother.

"How did they know to call you?" April asked.

Brenda blinked. "I have no idea. It wasn't me. Burton got the call, didn't you, Burr?"

"Well, I didn't speak to anyone. Someone left a message. I was out at the time. I didn't get in until late."

"What difference does it make?" Brenda said impatiently. "You called me in the middle of the night. After that I didn't sleep a wink." She sniffed over the lost sleep.

"Did you save the message?"

"No, why should I?" Burton said.

"What did you do then?" April asked.

Silence. The siblings locked eyes.

"You know, I think I would like that water," April said, but no one made a move to get it for her. "Detective, would you like some water?"

"Thanks, water would be great." Woody was enthusiastic. Now he'd get a chance to question Burton alone.

"Miss Bassett, would you show me the kitchen?"

Brenda remained motionless in her chair. Even when April reached the door, she still resisted getting up.

"It's not like I live here," she protested finally. "I haven't lived here since I was thirteen."

"You still know where the kitchen is," her brother pointed out.

Brenda pulled herself out of the wing chair. "Follow me," she said coldly.

She led the way into the gallery with all the paintings, then through a doorway to an inside dining room that wasn't very cozy. All it had in it was an old table and some wooden chairs. When she turned around, the fluorescent light from the ceiling fixture made her look old. "The servants' dining room," she said.

"Does someone live in?" April wouldn't mind knowing what had been taken out of here since last night.

"Not anymore."

"How about daily help?"

"I wouldn't know Birdie's arrangements." Brenda moved through a doorway into a kitchen April's chef father would appreciate. It wasn't one of those new overdone ones.

This kitchen was all utility and about the size of April and Mike's one-bedroom apartment. Half of it was equipped with a huge old restaurant stove, miles of stainless-steel countertops, and high glass-doored cabinets full of crystal glasses and delicate china. The main area boasted two refrigerators, two sinks, and two dishwashers. Another section had more miles of counters, with heat lamps set into the cabinets above and a third sink and dishwasher.

"Butler's pantry." Brenda waved her hand toward the area with the heat lamps near the dining room. An open silver closet revealed felt-lined shelves, heavily laden with silver casserole dishes and plates and serving trays and salt and pepper cellars, the gamut. An elaborate coffee and tea set on a silver tray, four large candelabra, and an open chest full of flatware on the counter had already been removed.

On the question of the water, Brenda seemed stymied by the three sinks, as if each one might dispense a different flavor. April pushed open the swinging door and went into the dining room.