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musical eras, styles, and keys unfathomable to all but Stanley.
    They got into my car, Jerry in the passenger seat, Stanley in back. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I glanced back at Stanley.
    â€œWe’re going by your house,” I said.
    Stanley checked his wristwatch. “Now?”
    â€œYou need to change out of that tuxedo.”
    Stanley stared out of the passenger window.
    My cell phone rang. I could tell who it was from the caller ID. “Yes?”
    I listened for a moment.
    â€œThat’s not acceptable, Barry,” I said. “Your client needs to comply with the judge’s order.”
    He tried to start in again.
    â€œForget it,” I said. “I’ll see you in court at two.” I pressed End and set the cell phone down.
    We drove in silence, Jerry occasionally glancing back at Stanley, who was staring out the side window and moving his neck around in those odd contortions of his. My mother had sensed from her conversation with Stanley’s mother that Stanley had had feelings for Sari Bashir. He’d been upset when he learned of her death, although it was beyond me how she could detect that emotion, or any emotion, in Stanley.
    We were stopped at a light when Stanley announced, “She was not depressed.”
    I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “What do you mean?”
    Stanley was staring out the window. He started whistling.
    â€œStanley?” Jerry said.
    Stanley turned toward Jerry and raised his eyebrows.
    Jerry said, “What do you mean she wasn’t depressed?”
    â€œShe was troubled,” he said. “More precisely, agitated. But not depressed. Not sad, not melancholic, not despondent.”
    â€œWhen?” I asked.
    â€œThe last four days of her life.”
    â€œWhat makes you think that?” I asked.
    Stanley rolled his eyes. “It was obvious.”
    The light changed to green.
    â€œAgitated?” I asked. “About what?”
    â€œPresumably about whatever resulted in her death.”
    Jerry turned toward Stanley. “She must have been very agitated.”
    Stanley stared at him.
    Jerry shrugged. “You have to be pretty agitated to commit suicide.”
    Stanley snorted. “Oh, puh-leazse. Do you fail to comprehend, Jerry?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSari Bashir did not commit suicide.”
    I slowed the car and glanced in the rearview mirror. Stanley was squinting and tugging at his black bowtie.
    â€œThen how did she die?” I said.
    â€œHow else?”
    â€œDid she slip?” Jerry said.
    Stanley gave one of his snorts, which sounded like a dog’s bark. “Slipped over a wall two feet high? Not under our current gravitational system.”
    â€œWhat are you saying, Stanley?” I asked.
    â€œSari Bashir’s death was a homicide.”
    I pulled the car over to the curb and turned to face him. “You think someone killed her?”
    Stanley was staring out the window now. He started whistling his tuneless song.
    â€œMurdered?” Jerry said. “Do you have any proof?”
    He stopped whistling. “Of course.”
    â€œWhat kind of proof?” I asked.
    â€œThe best kind.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” I asked.
    â€œAll in good time. All in good time.”
    And he started whistling again.
    I knew enough not to push Stanley. Jerry made a couple of attempts, but Stanley refused to say anything further.

Chapter Three
    Stanley’s mother greeted us at the door of her 1950s ranch-style house. Bea Plotkin was a short plump woman in her late sixties. She wore a plaid house dress and white tennis shoes.
    â€œHello, Mrs. Plotkin,” Jerry said.
    She gave him a hug, her arms not quite reaching around the big guy’s waist.
    She turned to me with a big smile. “Rachel, darling. Such a sweetheart.”
    â€œHi, Bea.” I leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
    As Stanley went down the hall to change, we followed Bea