and side tables.

He steered me toward the kitchen. A small interior staircase loomed ahead of me. I hesitated.

“Shall we head to the roof?” he asked.

Even though I hadn’t actually seen Helene dead, images of her lying at the bottom of the stairs flooded my head, followed by an image of Bruce pushing her down the stairs. Immediately followed by an image of Bruce pushing me off the roof.

Bruce glanced curiously at me. “It’s a nice day out. The weather is outstanding for November.”

I looked into his sad eyes and suddenly felt ridiculous. He wouldn’t harm anyone.

“Earthquake weather,” I said, climbing the narrow winding staircase.

When I emerged into the bright sunlight, I was startled to see Celia there manning the grill.

She flashed me a bright smile. “Kate! Oh, and you brought your baby!” She dropped the tongs on a small side table and rushed over to coo at Laurie.

What was she doing here?

I recalled the touch and hushed conversation they’d shared at the funeral. Could they be having an affair?

I watched Bruce watch Celia. His eyes flashed bright for a moment, then the sadness returned. He picked up the discarded tongs and poked at the salmon.

“My friend caught this fish in Canada. Shipped it back just a few days ago. This is the freshest salmon we can hope to have in California for a while, what with the season closure and all.”

Celia picked up a beer, took a sip, then put her hand to her stomach. “Gosh, I’ve been feeling sick all day.” She hesitantly glanced at Bruce.

Morning sickness?

Bruce looked up from the grill. “Oh. Uh . . . if you’re not feeling well . . . Do you want to go home? Oh . . . I’m your ride.” He glanced at Laurie and me, then back to Celia. Celia had a sour look on her face.

“Do you want me to call you a cab?”

Celia hesitated. She clutched her stomach. “I hate to miss out on the salmon . . . but maybe I’ll feel better if I lie down for a while.”

“Sure. You can lie down in the guest room,” Bruce said.

Celia moved toward the stairs. She turned to me. “Will you promise to come check on me in twenty minutes? I don’t want to miss the party.”

Party? How strange.

A widower and a PI meeting was hardly a party. Something was definitely going on.

She descended the stairs. Bruce pulled the salmon off the grill and placed a few pieces alongside some vegetable shish kebabs on a pumpkin-colored platter.

He garnished the fish with some lemon slices and placed the platter in the middle of a picnic table that looked like it should have been center stage in a photo shoot for Pottery Barn.

He indicated for me to help myself.

I served myself a piece of fish and shish kebab. The smell of salmon was unbelievably delicious.

Bruce stared longing at the platter. “Haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”

I wanted to dig in, but now it looked like I would be dining alone. Was that wise? How did I know the fish was safe?

I chided myself. I couldn’t stand the paranoia any longer. Or the hunger for that matter. Anyway, hadn’t I already decided Bruce wouldn’t harm me in his own house?

I broke the fish apart with my fork and sampled it. It was moist, hot, and delicious.

Bruce looked at Laurie in her car seat bucket and sighed. “Before this is over, I hope I have a couple of those.”

“Before what is over?” I asked.

“This life.”

“You and Helene didn’t have any children, is that right?”

Bruce nodded. “Helene couldn’t have kids.”

I made no attempt to hide my surprise. “Really? I thought Margaret said you didn’t want kids. She said Helene was fighting the biological clock.”

Now it was Bruce’s turn to be surprised. His face showed first dismay then something between defeat and sadness. “I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me. Helene was always one surprise after another. I could probably tell you this. I don’t see what difference it makes now that she’s gone.”

Bruce leaned in toward me and lowered his voice. “About a year after we were married, Helene was brutally raped. It was bad, really bad.” He shook his head back and forth. “We didn’t realize at first that it would prevent us from having kids . . . but . . . sometimes things are just out of your control. I understand why Helene never said anything to Margaret. But me not wanting kids? No. No way. I’d always joked with