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Milo’s knock elicited footsteps and sound behind the door. Brief movement on the other side of the peephole, then a woman’s voice said, “Yes?”
“Police, ma’am.” He held up his card.
“About what?”
“Are you Ms. Blanding?”
“Why do you ask?”
“If you are, we’re here about your daughter, Cordelia Gannett.”
The door opened on Renata Blanding, barefoot, now crowned by a hennaed pageboy and wearing a black Chanel T-shirt over gold jeggings.
“What’s she gotten into now?”
Bare interest in pale-blue eyes. Her skin was lightly freckled and stretched tight over a handsome framework. The same muscular shoulders and spare build as in the fundraiser photo. Slightly oversized hands. Diamond hoop earrings dangled from close-set ears. A big, square solitaire diamond graced the left ring finger; on the matching right finger, a pink-and-white diamond band.
Milo said, “May we come in, Ms. Blanding?”
“Is that nece— I guess. Okay.”
She stepped aside and closed the door after us. The house was neat, airy, brightened by a rear wall of French doors looking out to a yarddominated by a too-wide swimming pool. Three-step entry hall, three additional steps down to the living room. The room bore a faint smell of fruit—strawberries and citrus. Through the doorway to the kitchen, a blender sat on a counter. Someone fiddled there, unseen.
Renata Blanding folded her arms across her chest. “Now you’re inside. What?”
Milo said, “It’s best we sit down, ma’am.”
Sculpted eyebrows climbed. “That bad? Last time I hung with the cops, it cost me big.”
He pointed to a nearby sofa. Taupe ultra-suede, pale-blue pillows perfectly fluffed and arranged precisely.
An almost assertive neatness. Like mother like daughter?
Renata Blanding worked at remaining impassive but the blue eyes sparked and her jawline quivered.
“What?” she demanded.
Milo said, “Please, ma’am,” and guided her to the couch. She sat on the rim, still cross-armed.
There’s no way to do it but to do it.
Milo said, “I’m afraid, ma’am, that Cordelia is deceased.”
“Impossible,” said Renata Blanding. “Absolutely impossible.”
Milo said nothing.
“Impossible,” she repeated. “Fucking impossible.”
She sat up higher, squeezed herself tighter. Stared at Milo with the pathetic defiance of a two-year-old. Then at me. Then back to Milo.“Impossible.”
He said, “I’m so sorry, ma’am.”
“No way.”
Milo sighed.
Renata Blanding shook her head back and forth. Three more “impossibles” surrendered to an anguished “Oh my God!”
