In the sitting area in front of the wide terrace doors, Paul Havertoe huddled on a silver-backed sofa with red cushions, and clutched a soggy handkerchief.

Eve judged him about twenty years his dead spouse’s junior. His smooth, handsome face carried a pale gold tan that showed off well against the luxurious sweep of his caramel-colored hair. He wore trim, pressed jeans and a spotless white shirt over a body that Eve assumed put in solid health-club time.

His eyes when they lifted to Eve’s were the color of plums and puffy from weeping.

“I’m Lieutenant Dallas, and this is Detective Peabody. I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Havertoe.”

“Cecil’s dead.”

Under the rawness of the tears, Eve caught hints of molasses and magnolia.

“I know this is a difficult time, but we need to ask you some questions.”

“Because Cecil’s dead.”

“Yes. We’re recording this, Mr. Havertoe, for your protection. And I’m going to read you your rights so you’re clear on everything. Okay?”

“Do you have to?”

“It’s better if I do. We’ll make this as quick as we can. Is there anyone you’d like us to contact for you—a friend, family member—before we start?”

“I … I can’t think.”

“Well, if you think of someone you want with you, we’ll arrange it.” She sat across from him, read off the Revised Miranda. “Do you understand your rights and obligations?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, good. You were out of town?”

“Chicago. A client. We’re event creators. I got back this morning, and …”

“You returned from Chicago this morning. At what time?”