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The woman took a few steps closer, studied us some more, returned to the house and slipped from view.
The gate glided open and we hiked to the front door. When we’d reached midway it reopened and the maid stood there watching us.
Milo said, “Lieutenant Sturgis, ma’am. This is Alex Delaware.”
She nodded but her eyes were tight. Thirties, Hispanic, fresh-faced, pretty. Someone materialized behind her. An older woman, shorter, dressed in an identical uniform. Equally apprehensive.
“May we come in, please?”
Both women shifted to the right, as if trained to be a welcoming party.
The entry hall was a thirty-foot disk of white marble inlaid with small black squares. An elaborately carved and gilded center table held a three-foot crystal vase filled with silk flowers.
Behind the disk, a double marble staircase climbed to a window-backed landing. A Persian runner centering the steps was held fast by brass rods.
The bordering walls were hung with a tapestry on each side andtall paintings. Portraits of elaborately dressed, pallid, flat-faced people. Most likely imaginary ancestors. The kind of artwork that looks impressive at first glance but fetches low prices at auctions because who wants to be surrounded by dyspeptic Victorians?
On both sides of the entry were cavernous spaces that defied labeling. Great room? Living room? Salon? Indoor football field?
Identical six-foot black granite fireplaces at both ends, the mantels topped by silver torchères and another pair of judgmental faux forebears.
Milo pointed to the nearest portrait. “Family?”
The women giggled. The older woman said, “He buys.”
“Mr. March.”
“Si— yes.”
Milo said, “Is Mr. March here?”
The younger woman shook her head.
“Where is he?” Smiling and keeping his voice soft.
“Traveling.”
“Any idea where?”
She looked back at the older woman. Dual shrugs.
“Any idea when he’ll be back?”
The younger woman began to shrug again but stopped when the older woman touched her shoulder and said, “He say Tuesday. But sometimes he doesn’t.”
“Sometimes he doesn’t arrive when he says he’s going to?”
Nods.
Milo said, “Do you have a number where he can be reached?”
The younger woman left, walked to the left of the staircase and around.
The older woman said, “In the kitchen.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
She gnawed her lower lip. “This is about Missus?”
