“I got a seagull problem out at the house,” Stranahan said.

Kate said, “Oh? What happened to those plastic owls?”

“Didn’t work,” Stranahan said. “Gulls just crapped all over ‘em.”

They went into Kipper Garth’s study, the square footage of which exceeded that of Stranahan’s entire house. His shotgun, a Remington pump, was locked up with some fancy filigreed bird guns in a maplewood rack. Kate got the key from a drawer in her husband’s desk. Stranahan took the Remington down and looked it over.

Kate noticed his expression and said, “Kip used it once or twice up North. For pheasant.”

“He could’ve cleaned off the mud, at least.”

“Sorry, Mick.”

“The man is hopeless.”

Kate touched his arm and said, “He’ll be home in an hour. Would you stay?”

“I can’t.”

“As a favor, please. I’d like you to straighten out this lawsuit nonsense once and for all.”

“Nothing to straighten out, Katie. The little monkey wants to sue me, fine. I understand.”

The dispute stemmed from a pending disbarment proceeding against Kipper Garth, who stood accused of defrauding an insurance company. One of Kipper Garth’s clients had claimed eighty percent disability after tripping over a rake on the seventeenth hole of a golf course. Three days after the suit had been filed, the man was dumb enough to enter the 26-kilometer Orange Bowl Marathon, dumb enough to finish third, and dumb enough to give interviews to several TV sportscasters.

It was such an egregious scam that even the Florida Bar couldn’t ignore it, and with no encouragement Mick Stranahan had stepped forward to testify against his own brother-in-law. Some of what Stranahan had said was fact, and some was opinion; Kipper Garth liked none of it and had threatened to sue for defamation.

“It’s getting ridiculous,” Kate said. “It really is.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t file,” Stranahan said. “He couldn’t find the goddamn courthouse with a map.”