Birthright

book on Pompeii. “It’s great. Thanks.”
    “If you don’t like it, you can—”
    “I do like it.” It wasn’t so hard to lean over, touch her lips to his cheek. Harder, much harder, was to watch him struggle to control his stunned gratitude for one small gesture.
    “Good.” He reached out, a little blindly, and closed his hand over Suzanne’s. “Um. That’s good, but I’m used to having my gifts returned.”
    Suzanne let out an exaggerated huff. “Didn’t I keep that ugly music box with the ceramic cardinal you gave me for Valentine’s Day? It plays ‘Feelings,’ ” she told Callie.
    “Wow, you really do suck at this. I lucked out.” She picked up the gift bag, riffled through the matching tissue paper for the jewelry box.
    “They were my grandmother’s.” Suzanne kept her fingers twined with Jay’s as Callie drew out the single strand of pearls. “She gave them to my mother on her wedding day, and my mother gave them to me on mine. I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted you to have them. Even though you never knew them, I thought it was a link you might appreciate.”
    “They’re beautiful. I do appreciate it.” Callie looked back toward the square in the ground where ancient boneslay waiting. Jake was right, she thought. She’d never be able to walk away.
    She put the pearls gently back in the box. “One day you’ll tell me about them. And that’s how I’ll know them.”

Twenty-three
    S ane and enjoyable outdoor activities, as far as Lana was concerned, included shady summer picnics, sipping margaritas at the beach, a nice morning of gardening and perhaps a weekend of skiing—with the emphasis on the après.
    She’d never envisioned herself camped out in a field, eating a charred hot dog as she updated a client. But nothing about her attorney-client relationship with Callie had been usual.
    “Want a beer to go with that?” Comfortable, Callie flipped the lid on a cooler.
    “She doesn’t drink beer.” Doug crooked a finger at the cooler. “But I do.”
    “Well, we’re all out of pinot noir at the moment.” Callie tossed Doug a can of Coors. “This is getting to be real cozy. Like we’re double-dating.”
    “When we all go to the car to fool around, I call the backseat.” Jake dipped a hand into an open bag of chips.
    “I’ll make sure to note the time when that activity begins.” Shifting to try to find a soft spot on the ground,Lana swatted at a mosquito. “It wouldn’t be ethical to bill you for it. Meanwhile . . .”
    She scooped her hair out of the way, then pulled a file out of her bag. “I’ve verified the death certificate, and spoke personally with Carlyle’s physician. As he received permission from next of kin, he was willing to give me some of the details of Carlyle’s medical condition. His cancer was diagnosed eight years ago, and treated. Recently, it recurred. The chemo cycle began last April, and in July Carlyle was hospitalized as his condition worsened. He was terminal, and was released to hospice care in early August.”
    She set the file down, looked at Callie. “I can extrapolate from this that Carlyle was in no shape to travel, and there’s no evidence he left his home on Grand Cayman. He may have been able to communicate to some extent by phone, but even that would’ve been limited. He was a very sick man.”
    “And now he’s a very dead one,” Callie stated.
    “It’s possible we can put together enough evidence to take to court and persuade a judge to subpoena his records. There are probably records, Callie, and it may help you to see them. But it would take time, and I can’t guarantee I can make it happen with what we have so far.”
    “Then we’ll have to get more. We found the connection between Barbara Halloway and Suzanne, to Simpson, to my parents. And those connect to Carlyle. There’ll be others.”
    “How important is it to you?” Doug lifted a hand, let it fall. “You know what happened. You may not be able to prove it, but you know. Carlyle’s dead, so how important is it?”
    Callie reached in the cooler again and took out a small package wrapped in aluminum foil. She opened it, offered it. “She baked me a birthday cake.”
    Doug stared at the pink rosebud on white frosting, then made himself reach out and break off a corner. “Okay.”
    “I can’t love her the way you do. Or him,” she said, thinking of Jay. “But they matter to me.”
    “People worked for Carlyle,” Jake put in. “In his