Maximum Security by Rose Connors Page A

it,” she tells him. “Herb always said my sweet tea should be patented.”

    Plenty of liquids are patented. Chemicals, for instance. Commercial fertilizers. Industrial-strength disinfectants. That doesn’t mean they’re fit for human consumption. I clear my throat, intending to put an end to this meeting of the Southern Admiration Society, but the doorbell drowns me out.

    “Excuse me,” Louisa says, wiping her hands on a terry-cloth towel at the sink. She leaves the Kydd and me in the kitchen and heads back through the living room toward the front door. Another non–Cape Codder has come to call, it seems, using the wrong door.

    I cross the kitchen and hand Louisa’s file to the Kydd. For a split second, he seems not to know why. “We came here to work,” I remind him. “Not to attend a tea party.”

    He drains his glass, sets it on the counter, then stands at attention and salutes. I hand him my glass, still full. “Drink that,” I tell him. He does.

    Louisa returns with a tall, sharp-featured man in tow. He’s dressed in a well-cut navy blue suit, starched white shirt, and maroon tie. He looks as if he might be campaigning for political office, canvassing door-to-door in search of votes. “This is Steven Collier,” Louisa says to the Kydd and me. “I believe I mentioned him to you, Marty.”

    She did. He’s the money guy, Quick-draw McGraw. He apparently makes house calls. And on Saturday afternoons, no less.

    Quick-draw’s slicked-back hair is far too black to have come from Mother Nature. He greets the Kydd with a vigorous handshake and then accepts my outstretched hand more reluctantly, tossing his glossy head back toward the other room. He wants to speak privately, his dark eyes tell me. Maybe he plans to diversify my portfolio. Money guys sometimes assume that I have one.

    He cups my elbow in his palm—a gesture I find utterly irritating—and propels me toward the living room. “I need some advice,” he says as he closes the heavy doors between us and the kitchen.

    Yes, he does. And I should give it to him. Don’t steer women around as if we’re on wheels, I should say. But I don’t. No need to alienate a potential witness. “Advice about what?” I ask instead.

    “About what I know.”

    “Pardon?”

    “How much do I know?”

    “How much do you know ?” He knows more than I do at the moment. I don’t even know what he’s asking.

    “About Louisa,” he says.

    Now I’m thoroughly confused. “You want me to tell you how much you know about Louisa?”

    He crosses the room and leans over to rest one forearm on the mantel, his back to me. He’s quiet for a second, staring down at the few logs crackling in the fireplace. The living room’s heavy drapes are closed and the only other light in here is thrown by a floor lamp in the far corner.

    “I’m asking you how much I should know,” he says, turning to face me again.

    I shake my head. I don’t know what the hell he’s driving at.

    “About her finances, for example.” He puts one hand on his hip and raises the other, along with his eyes, to the ceiling. He’s annoyed.

    “You’re her money manager. You should know everything about her finances, shouldn’t you?”

    He runs both hands through his inky hair and laughs, staring into the fire and then eyeing me sideways. I’m apparently one of the denser people he’s come across in life. “I do ,” he says. “Of course I do. But I don’t have to tell them that.”

    “Them?”

    “The cops. If they think Louisa offed her husband to get at the insurance proceeds, they’re going to want to talk to me, aren’t they?”

    “They probably will,” I tell him, “if the investigation goes that far.”

    “Then you need to tell me what to say.”

    I pause for a moment to look him in the eyes, to make sure he means what I think he means. He does.

    “You’re mistaken, Mr. Collier. I don’t need to do any such thing. In fact, I’m specifically prohibited