P Is for Peril

evidence of Griff's dinner. The tray on his chrome-and-plastic high chair still bore a three-sectioned Beatrix Potter plate, with drying curds of scrambled egg, toast crusts, and a smear of applesauce. A bib had been laid over the back of the chair.
    "How long have you known her?"
    "Really, not that long. Sometime early last spring. I saw her out on the beach and then later at Fitch at one of those dreadful parent-teacher conferences. Did she offer you a drink?"
    "She did. I thought I'd better not have anything just yet."
    "Really. How come?" She took a corkscrew from the kitchen drawer and began opening the bottle as she moved to the kitchen cabinet and fetched herself a glass.
    "I don't know. It doesn't seem professional, given that I'm here on business."
    Bemused, she took out a second glass and held it up. "You sure? It won't count against you. We can sit out on the deck and sip wine while we watch the sun go down."
    "Oh, all right. Why not? You talked me into it."
    "Great. I hate to drink by myself." She held out the glasses and the bottle. "If you'll take these, I'll make us up a plate of nibbles. That way we won't get looped… or any more looped than we choose."
    I took the glasses in one hand, the stems forming an X, and tucked the bottle of white wine in the crook of my arm. I crossed the great room and pushed open one of the French doors with my elbow. Once on the deck, I set the items on a weathered wooden table between two wood-and-canvas sling chairs. The wind gusting in from the ocean was damp and smelled pungent, like an oyster liqueur. I took a deep breath, picking up the faint taste of salt at the back of my throat.
    Two palms near the house made tiny scratching noises as the fronds swept back and forth against the graying exterior. I moved to the edge of the deck, my gaze sweeping along the surf. The beach was deserted, while out on the ocean, white lights were showing on the oil rigs like diamonds on dark velvet. The weather bore the edgy feel of danger. I sat down, crossing my arms as I huddled against the chill. It was nearly twilight; a gradual, indiscriminate darkening, with no color visible through the heavy clouds. Far out on the horizon, I could see patches of silver where rays from the late sun pierced the marine layer. I heard the distant whine of a commuter plane approaching along the coast. Through the French doors, the living room looked clean and cozy. I was grateful for the protection afforded by the long-sleeved turtle neck under my blazer. Idly, I glanced at the Chardonnay bottle with its classy black-and-silver label. I leaned closer. The price tag, $65, was more than I'd paid for my telephone and electric bills combined that month.
    Two ornamental lamps came on, and Crystal, still barefoot, emerged from the house, carrying a tray of cheese and crackers, arranged with grapes and apple wedges. She'd pulled on a heavy navy sweater that hung, fetchingly, almost as far as her knees. She left the door open behind her, glancing over at me. "You look cold. I'm used to the ocean, but you must be freezing. Why don't I fire up the outside heaters? It'll just take a sec. You can pour the wine, if you would."
    I did as she suggested and then watched as she hunkered next to a fat propane canister with a heater element affixed. Her fingernails and toenails were both done in a French manicure, white defining the half-moon at the base of the nail and under the rim. The look was clean, though-like her hair-the effect probably cost her dearly and had to be redone every other week. It wasn't hard to imagine her doing a bump-and-grind routine. She turned a valve, using an electric match to ignite the hissing gas as it escaped. Soon after, the reddening coils glowed nearly white. She lit the second of the two heaters, turning them to face us so that warmth poured out across the space between us. "Is that better?"
    "Much."
    "Good. If you need something warmer, don't hesitate to say so. I have a huge supply of sweaters in the downstairs closet."
    We sipped wine in silence while I tried to decide how and where to begin. "I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me."
    She smiled faintly. "I considered hiring a detective myself half a dozen times, but I didn't want to undermine the police. I have every confidence in the job they're doing. Apparently, Fiona doesn't."
    "She likes the idea of someone devoted solely to the family's interests. The police have other cases requiring their more immediate