Her white blouse with black scarf and black riding breeches and boots bespoke a chic simplicity, her black hair longer than in the vintage Vogue photo, and just as the horse was shaking its mane, she did the same with hers, the black blades of her hair shimmering into place at either side of her pale oval face.

Slender, regal, eerily reminiscent of cartoonist Charles Addams’ Morticia, Mrs. Forrestal walked the horse to a nearby signpost that advised no littering, and tied it there; the stallion promptly deposited several road apples at the sign’s base, whether a token of defiance or sheer illiteracy on the animal’s part, who can say?

She strode confidently toward me, removing her black leather riding gloves, then extended a slender hand, which I took and shook. Like her husband, she had a firm grip, but she didn’t try so hard.

“Jo Forrestal,” she said. Her voice was low and melodious. “And you’re Mr. Heller.”

We were close enough that I would have caught liquor on her breath, if it had been there: nothing. Of course, maybe she was a vodka gal.

“Yes,” I said. “But why don’t we make it ‘Nate.’”

“And ‘Jo.’” A smile tickled lips that were wider than the Clara Bow rosebud of the Vogue photo.

“Step into my office,” I said, gesturing across the picnic table. She sat opposite me, the wind whispering through the row of smoke-colored beeches that stood nearby, disinterested observers.

“Surprisingly cool here,” I said, “for as hot as it’s been.”

She was a handsome woman of forty but looked every year of it; the dark, magnetic eyes had sunken, and drink had etched tiny lines in what was still a fine face.

“It’s always cool in this park,” she said. “Lovely year ’round.” She gestured toward the colorful wild-flowers hugging the feet of the beeches.