“So,” she said, raising her glass. “Salut.” The first sip almost knocked them over. “Now what is it about Cal you’d like to talk about?”

They stuck to the pretext about Adrienne’s late sister having a correspondence with Crane. Mamie said she didn’t know anything about that.

“He never mentioned a correspondence like that, but then,” she added, “he probably wouldn’t have.”

With the wind chimes tinkling all around them, they talked about the kind of man Calvin Crane was—which paved the way for McBride to inquire about “enemies.”

“Of course the police are asking me this same question,” Mamie told them, “but I have the sense they are just going through the motions, not really interested in my answer. So I don’t think about it. I mean, not seriously.” She took a tiny bite of cheese, and washed it down with a generous sip from her martini. “But I know Gunnar was unhappy with him.”

“Gunner?” Adrienne asked.

Mamie shook her head. “Gunnar Opdahl. He was Cal’s protégé at the Institute, but… are you all right, Mr. McBride?”

No, he wasn’t. He felt blindsided by the mention of Opdahl’s name. His heart leapt, and a bolt of panic shot through his chest. He must have flinched because Adrienne put a hand on his arm.

“You okay?” she asked.

A puff of air set the wind chimes clattering.

He nodded, and lied. “I got some dust in my eye.” Adrienne gave him a funny look.

To himself, he thought: What the fuck was that? Gunnar Opdahl was… what? Smart and urbane, a pleasant man to have lunch with. And yet, even as he thought this, he knew there was something else, something deeply unpleasant waiting to be remembered. Finally, he cleared his throat, and looked at Mamie. “You were saying… ?”

“Yes, I was saying they had a falling out. Gunnar and Cal.”

“Do you know what it was about?” Adrienne asked.

“Not really” Mamie replied. Despite her birdlike sips, she had downed most of her martini. “I left Switzerland before Cal did. The weather gets to you when you reach a certain age.”

“When did Cal retire?”

“In ‘93,” Mamie replied. “But their disagreement was more recent than that. I think it started—oh—maybe a year ago. A little more, perhaps.”

“Was it about the Institute?” Adrienne asked.

Mamie seesawed her head, frowned, and replenished her glass from the decanter. “I think it must have been. That was their only common ground, really. And, even retired, Cal was still active in certain things. As one of the founders, he still had a say.”

“What kind of say?”

“About the fellows, the research—and the clinic, of course. They do such very good work with troubled young people.” She paused, and then went on. “This contretemps with Gunnar might—” But then she shrugged, did not finish the sentence. “I shouldn’t say, really. Because I don’t know. I’m just guessing.”

“Tell us. Please?” Adrienne pressed. “We know so little…”

“Well, I was going to say I thought it might have to do with the money, with Gunnar feeling impeded in some way. That’s just the sense I got from some of the telephone conversations I overheard.” She fished an olive out of her glass and popped it into her mouth.

McBride leaned toward her. “Is there someone at the Institute who might be able to tell us more about the falling out between them?”

Mamie frowned. “Oh, I don’t think so. Cal was the last of the original group. And the new crowd… well, I don’t even know who they are.”

“Lew was a fellow,” Adrienne volunteered, with a sidelong glance at McBride.

“Oh, really!” Mamie exclaimed, her face cracking into a wide smile. “How exciting!” She reached out, pressed a girlish hand against his arm, and patted it in a proprietary way. “You must be jush… an outstanding young man!”

McBride smiled. Mamie was beginning to look a bit cross-eyed, and her words were beginning to slur. Probably the woman had told them all that she knew.

Adrienne noticed it, too. Mamie was down to the olive in her second martini, which suggested the conversation was about to deteriorate. So it would be best to get to the point. She picked up her glass by the stem, swirled it, and watched the oily bands of liquid curl. Out on the water, a Jet Ski whined, dopplering across the bay, as irritating as a mosquito. McBride was telling Mamie about his fellowship.

What if this was a legal case? she asked herself. What would she ask?

“Did Mr. Crane leave any papers?”

The question took Mamie by surprise. “Excuse me?”

“I know his belongings were sold,” Adrienne said, “but sometimes—”

“Well, you’re not the first to ask,” Mamie told her, covering a tiny hiccup. “After he died, a man from the government came, and asked the same thing. Awful little man!” She tossed her head like a teenager. “I told him Cal was always quoting some dead Legionnaire. ‘Pas des cartes, pas des fotos, et pas des souvenirs.’”

Adrienne gave her a hapless look. “I took Spanish.”

McBride translated. “‘No letters, no pictures, and no souvenirs.’“ He smiled regretfully. “Which is not so great for us. Anyway,” he decided, “we’ve taken enough of your time.”

“You’ve been very kind,” Adrienne agreed and, standing, extended her hand to the old woman.

Mamie took the hand and held it for what seemed a long while, scrutinizing Adrienne as if she were a Vermeer. “You have such an aura,” she told her. Then she laughed. “Maybe you’d better sit back down.” Turning to McBride, she added, “Cal was such a bullshitter—pas des cartes, indeed!”

She returned a few minutes later, lipstick refreshed, hair newly combed, carrying a battered briefcase and a small photo album. Raising the briefcase, she said, “He liked to do his correspondence here.” Glancing out to the window, she said, “I think we’re going to have some weather. Maybe the Florida room would be a better choice.” Beckoning, she led them down a long hall to a low-ceilinged room with large expanses of old-fashioned, jalousied windows, and a ceiling fan that turned, ever so slowly, overhead.

Beyond the windows, behind a stand of thrashing palms, the Gulf of Mexico trembled with whitecaps, its surface black-and-blue. McBride imagined he could feel the electricity in the air. Nearby, the crimson and green leaf of a croton bush skittered across the tiled floor, pushed by the wind.

The room itself was a comfortable one, furnished with a scattering of old rattan furniture and a profusion of plants: fiddleleaf figs, ferns, hibiscus. Citrus trees in huge glazed pots. Gardenias bloomed by the door, filling the air with their dense perfume.

Mamie sat down between them on a little couch, with the album resting on her lap. Opening the cover, she began to turn the pages, one at a time, never lingering for long on any one. “My parents’ house,” she said, “in Amstelveen.”

“It’s beautiful,” Adrienne remarked, and so it was.

“They worked for the bank,” Mamie confessed. “Mother, too. A real Dolle Mina!” She turned another page, and another, musing over the photos. “My brother, Roel.” She sighed. “So handsome!”

“Is he… ?”

Mamie shook her head. “No. He died during the war.”

“A soldier?” McBride asked.

She shook her head. “Tuberculosis.” Another picture, this time of a young woman at a café table in a European city. “Can you guess who that is?” she asked coyly.

McBride smiled. “Of course,” he replied, “it’s Greta Garbo. I’d recognize her anywhere.”

Mamie guffawed—a big, uncompromising Ha! “Such a darling man! And what a liar!”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Adrienne asked. “But you’re so beautiful!”

“And you’re very kind,” Mamie replied. Then she turned another page and stopped. Her forefinger stabbed at a 5 by 7 snapshot of half a dozen men posing for a photo on an elegant terrace in what could only be the Alps. “There!” she told them. “That’s what I wanted to show you.”