Final Option

object as ordinary as a carefully pressed rectangle of Irish linen—is enough to let loose a flood of dark emotions.
    I looked in the mirror, sternly warning myself against tears, and carefully pulled the pins from my dark hair. I took it down and rewound it with automatic hands into its customary French twist. I splashed cold water on my face, blotting it with a piece of tissue—not trusting myself to touch the towels. Then I took a deep breath and deliberately composed myself back into the haro-working corporate attorney that I carefully presented to the world each day.
     
    The house was cavernous and confusing so I had to search to unearth a member of the Hexter household who was not fully occupied with the police. I finally came upon a sullen-looking young woman in a black maid’s uniform who agreed to see if Mrs. Hexter would be available to speak to me. While I awaited her return,
    I looked out through the leaded panes of a tall window at the front of the house in time to see two squad cars and an ambulance swing quickly around the circular drive—Bart Hexter leaving home for the last time.
    Pamela Manderson Hexter received me in a pretty upstairs sitting room in a distant wing of the house. It was a sunny, high-ceilinged spot filled with well-worn Queen Anne furniture upholstered in yellow and cerise—a marked contrast to the rest of the house. I guessed that this room, comfortable and separate, was her private retreat, decorated with cherished pieces from her parents’ house. The new widow greeted me from a high-backed armchair set in the wide bay window that overlooked a long, terraced garden.
    Pamela and Bart Hexter had shared a very public marriage. Not content to live quietly, Bart Hexter from the first had dragged his shy wife into the spotlight with him, and over time, it became clear that she grew more comfortable there. The couple were active in a number of charities, including a foundation bearing their name that aided families of seriously ill children. In addition, the couple were tireless partygoers, so that very few weeks went by without a mention of the Hexters on the society page.
    Pamela was a well-presented blonde of a certain age who had fought the battle of encroaching years with help from the plastic surgeon’s knife. Dressed in a simple gray Castelberry suit, her hair, which just grazed her shoulders, had been meticulously arranged and sprayed into immobility. Her face was pale, but her makeup remained undisturbed by tears.
    “Mrs. Hexter,” I said, crossing the room toward her, “I am so sorry to intrude at such a difficult time.”
    “Please, call me Pamela,” she replied in the clenched-jawed drawl of the upper classes. “After all, I’ve known your mother practically all my life. I was so surprised when Bart mentioned that you were coming to the house this morning—imagine, Astrid’s daughter working as a lawyer....” She motioned me into the chair opposite hers. On a low table between us lay a basket of needlepoint and a notepad. On it was a long list of names written in the loopy script that seems to be acquired at prep school and subsequently applied to a lifetime of invitations and thank-you notes.
    “I am so sorry for your loss,” I said, falling back upon convention. “This must be a terrible shock.”
    “I still can’t believe it,” she replied, her hands folded quietly in her lap, like a schoolgirl reciting a lesson, ankles crossed. “I always assumed... I mean, we always thought it would be his heart that would take him. Bart had a heart attack a few years ago—we almost lost him then. It left him with a serious heart condition, though I know I worried about it more than he did. This morning when he didn’t come back from getting the newspaper I was worried that he’d forgotten to take the medication for his heart. I went out in my golf cart to see if he was all right. When I saw his car... The shock...” Her face clouded over in recollection, and her voice trailed off. I had assumed that I had been the first one to discover Hexter’s body. Obviously, Pamela, coming upon him before me, had been the one to call the police.
    “Mrs. Hexter... Pamela,” I said. “I hate to have to bring this up at a time like this, but as I’m sure you know, futures is a very volatile, fast-moving business.
    I’d like your permission to contact the exchanges today. I’m certain they are going to want to take a look at your husband’s trading accounts to make