Somebody with money lived here, obviously-this little beach cottage had to run somewhere between fifteen and twenty rooms-but not necessarily somebody with taste. Marjorie Bristol had been wrong: grandiose as its name might be, sprawling and well-tended as its grounds were, Westbourne had a distinctly commonplace air.

Samuel gave me a smile and I tipped my hat to him as he led his horse and surrey back toward the gate.

“He seems like a sweet guy,” I said. I had slipped my coat back on and was lugging the duffel.

“None sweeter,” Miss Bristol said.

As she walked me toward the wide front porch, she pointed off to the right. “Tennis court over there,” she said. “Swimmin’ pool, too.”

The tennis courts peeked through the palms, but you couldn’t see the pool from here.

“Why do you need a swimming pool when the ocean’s in your front yard?”

“I don’t,” she said, with a little shrug.

The main entry was unlocked and she went right on in, and I followed. The interior was lush dark wood and plaster walls with paintings and prints that ran to a nautical theme; the ceiling was higher than I would have guessed from outside. An open staircase curved to bedrooms above. To my left I glimpsed a formal dining room, with rich-looking Victorian furnishings and a vast oriental carpet, large enough for an Arabian village to fly away on. Everywhere I looked was a vase with fresh-cut white flowers.

Miss Bristol noticed me noticing that and said, “Lady Eunice, she loves her lilies. Even when she’s away, like now, I keep her vases brimmin’.”

Our footsteps echoed on a parquet floor where my face looked back up at me when I glanced down. I wondered if this high polish was Miss Bristol’s work, or if she was strictly administrative.