Ina waited on the edge of her chair. “Did India show you the studio?”

Mains glanced at me. “Not today.”

Or ever, I thought.

“Your leprechauns are really sharp,” Mains told Ina.

Ina preened. “Thank you. You wouldn’t be Irish, would you?” She pushed herself up to lean on the wrought iron railing.

“I’m afraid not. I’m more English than anything else.”

Ina jumped back as if she’d been stung by a yellow jacket. “Bloody English.”

Oh, geez, I thought. Before Ina could leap into a full-blown tirade, I ushered Mains down the step. “I think you’d better go.”

“Okay,” he said, eyeing Ina, whose face blazed molten purple. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

I wasn’t sure if he referred to his accusation of Mark or offending Ina.

After Mains’s sedan disappeared around the corner, I asked Ina if she was all right.

After spurting for a few minutes, she managed, “You’re dating an Englishman. Don’t you know what the English did to our people? The suffering. He didn’t give you any potatoes, did he?”

“I’m not dating Richmond Mains. He’s a police officer. He asked me some questions about a case.”

“A police officer to boot. The English are always looking for ways to bully,” Ina said.

I rubbed my throbbing shoulder and felt the sharp fingertips of a migraine tickle my brain.

“Why would a police officer speak with you? Have you done something wrong?”

“No, I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not feeling too well. I think I’ll go lie down.”

As I opened the door, Ina leaned further over the railing so that her feet no longer touched the stoop. “I prefer Bobby McNally. Now, he’s a fine-looking Irish lad.”

“Aye, that he is,” I remarked in a mock brogue.

Once inside, I looked longingly toward my shut bedroom door.