The meal was like something out of a magazine. Plump quartered chicken served cold with a mustard sauce, tiny flaky tarts filled with spinach and a smoky cheddar cheese, clusters of grapes and sprigs of parsley tucked here and there. Two small china bowls with lids held an icy tomato soup with fresh dill clipped across the surface and a little dollop of creme fraiche. We finished with a plate of tiny decorated cookies. Did these people eat like this every day? Bobby never batted an eye. I don't know what I expected him to do. He couldn't squeal with excitement every time a supper tray showed up, but I was impressed and I guess I wanted him to marvel, as I did, so I wouldn't feel like such a rube.

By the time we went downstairs, it was nearly eight and the guests were gone. The house seemed deserted, except for the two maids who were tidying up the living room in silence as we passed. Bobby led us to a heavy oak-paneled door across the wide hall. He knocked and there was a murmured response. We went into a small den, where Glen Callahan was seated with a book, a wineglass on the end table at her right hand. She'd changed into chocolate-brown wool slacks and a matching cashmere pullover. A fire burned in a copper grate. The walls were painted tomato red, with matching red drapes drawn against the chill dusk. In Santa Teresa, most nights are cold regardless of the month. This room felt cozy, an intimate retreat from the rest or the house with its high ceilings and chalk-white stucco walls.

Bobby sat down in the chair across from his mother. "Has Derek called yet?"

She closed her book and set it aside. "A few minutes ago. She's pulled out of it. She had her stomach pumped and they'll be admitting her as soon as she's out of emergency. Derek will stay until the papers have been signed."

I glanced at Bobby. He lowered his face into his hands and sighed once with relief, a sound like a low note on a bagpipe. He shook his head, staring down at the floor.

Glen studied him. "You're exhausted. Why don't you go on to bed? I'll want to talk to Kinsey alone anyway."

"All right. I might as well," he said. The slur in his voice had become pronounced and I could see now that the fine muscles near his eyes were being tugged, as though stimulated electrically. Fatigue apparently exacerbated his disability. He got up and crossed to her chair. Glen took his face in her hands and stared at him intently.

"I'll let you know if there's any change in Kitty's condition," she murmured. "I don't want you to worry. Sleep well."

He nodded, laying the good side of his face near hers. He moved toward the door. "I'll call you in the morning," he said to me, then let himself out. I could hear his dragging gait for a moment in the hallway and then it faded from hearing.

I sat in the chair Bobby had vacated. The down-filled cushion was still warm, contoured to the shape of his body. Glen was watching me, formulating, I gathered, an opinion of me. By lamplight, I could see that her hair color was the handiwork of an expert who'd matched it almost exactly to the mild brown of her eyes. Everything about her was beautifully coordinated: makeup, clothing, accessories. She was apparently a person who paid attention to detail and her taste was impeccable.

"I'm sorry you had to see us like this."

"I'm not sure I ever see people at their best," I said. "It gives me a rather skewed impression of humankind. Will he be paying my bills or will you?"

The question caused her to focus on me with interest and I guessed that she brought a considerable intelligence to any matter involving money. She raised an eyebrow ever so slightly.

"He will. He came into his trust when he was twenty-one. Why do you ask?"

"I like to know who I'm reporting to," I said. "What's your feeling about his claim that someone's trying to kill him?"

She took a moment to respond, shrugging delicately. "It's possible. The police seem convinced that someone forced him off that bridge. Whether it was premeditated, I have no idea." Her voice was distinct, low, and intense.

"From what Bobby says, it's been a long nine months."

She ran a thumbnail along her pantleg, directing her comments to the crease. "I don't know how we survived it. He's my only child, the light of my life."

She paused, smiling slightly to herself, and then looked up at me with an unexpected shyness. "I know ail mothers must talk like this, but he was special. He really was. Even from infancy. Smart, alert, sociable, quick. And gorgeous. Such a beautiful little boy, easygoing and affectionate, funny. He was magical.

"The night of the accident, the police came to the house. They weren't able to notify us until four in the morning because the car wasn't discovered for a while and then it took hours to get the two boys up the side of the mountain. Rick died instantly, of course."

She broke off and I thought at first she'd lost her train of thought. "Anyway. The doorbell rang. Derek went down, and when he didn't come back, I grabbed a robe and went down myself I saw two policemen in the foyer. I thought they'd come to tell us there was a burglary in the neighborhood or an accident on the road out front. Derek turned around and he had this awful look on his face. He said, 'Glen, it's Bobby.' I thought my heart had stopped."

She looked up at me and her eyes were luminous with tears. She laced her fingers together, making a steeple of her two index fingers, which she rested against her lips. "I thought he was dead. I thought they'd come to tell me he'd died. I felt a spurt of ice, like I'd been stabbed. It started in my heart and spread through my body 'til my teeth chattered. He was at St. Terry's by then. All we knew at that point was he was still alive, but barely. When we got to the hospital, the doctor didn't give us any hope at all. None. They told us there were extensive injuries. Brain damage and so many broken bones. They said he'd never recover, that he'd be a vegetable if he survived. I was dying. I died because Bobby was dying and it went on for days. I never left his side. I was crazy, screaming at everyone, nurses, doctors…"

Her gaze flattened and she lifted an index finger, like a teacher who wants to make a point very clear. "I'll tell you what I learned," she said carefully. "I understood I couldn't buy Bobby's life. Money can't buy life, but it can buy anything else you want. I'd never used money that way, which seems odd to me now. My parents had money. My parents' parents had money. I've always understood the power of money, but I'd never wielded it with quite such effect. He had the best of everything. The best! Nothing was spared.

And he pulled out of it. Having endured so much, I'd hate to think someone did it deliberately. To all intents and purposes, Bobby's life is ruined. He'll be all right and we'll find a way for him to live productively, but only because we're in a position to make that happen. The losses are incalculable. It's miraculous he's come this far."

"You have any theories about why someone might try to kill him?" i She shook her head.

"You said Bobby has his own money. Who benefits if he dies?"

"You'd have to ask him that. He has a will, I'm sure, and we've discussed his leaving his money to various charities… unless of course, he marries and has legitimate heirs of his own. You think money might be the motive?"

I shrugged. "I tend to look at that first, especially in a situation like this when it sounds like there's a lot."

"What else could it be? What could anyone have against him?"

"People murder for absurd reasons. Someone gets into a rage over something and retaliates. People get jealous or want to defend themselves from a real or imagined attack. Or they've done something wrong and they kill to cover it up. Sometimes it doesn't even make that much sense. Maybe Bobby cut someone off in a lane change that night and the driver followed him all the way up the pass. People go nuts in cars. I take it he wasn't in the middle of a hassle with anyone?"