conviction, you can usually fool yourself. All that she had to do now was generate a to-do list. That’s what Paul would have done. He had always said there was nothing that a list couldn’t solve. Conquer the details and you conquer the problem. “I’ll go walk the detectives through the house. We’ll need to cancel the wake.” She turned to the limo driver, who’d been discreetly standing to the side. “Can you take my grandmother back to the home, please?” She told the cop, “Please cancel the ambulance. I’m fine. There are over a hundred people on their way here. Unless you want them coming into the house, you need to post someone at the bottom of the driveway to stop them.”
“Will do.” The cop seemed happy to get away from them. She practically ran down the driveway.
Claire felt some of her bluster dissipate. She looked at her mother. “I’m not sure I can do this.”
“You’re already doing it.” Helen looped her hand through Claire’s arm and walked with her toward the men in trench coats. “Did you hurt your head when you fainted?”
“No.” Claire felt the back of her head. The bruises from the alley were still tender. Another lump wouldn’t make much of a difference. “Have I ever fainted before?”
“Not that I know of. You should try to do it in the grass next time. I thought you’d cracked open your noggin’.”
She squeezed her mother’s arm. “You don’t have to stay here.”
“I’m not leaving until I know you’re all right.”
Claire pressed together her lips. There had been a time when her mother had been incapable of being present for anything. “Listen, I know how you feel about the police, but you need to cool it.”
“Huckleberries,” Helen muttered, her word for incompetent policemen. “You know, it’s occurred to me that I’m just about the only person in our family who hasn’t gone to prison.”
“Jail, Mother. Prison is for after you’re convicted.”
“Thank God I didn’t use the wrong word with my book club.”
“Mrs. Scott?” One of the trench-coated men walked over with his badge in his hand. He reeked of cigar smoke because it wasn’t enough of a cliché to wear a trench coat. “I’m Captain Mayhew, Dunwoody Police Department.”
“Captain?” Claire asked. The man she’d talked to after Paul’s murder was only a detective. Was a burglary more important than a murder, or were murders so common in the city of Atlanta that they relegated them to detectives?
“I’m real sorry for your loss.” Mayhew dropped the badge into his coat pocket. His mustache was bushy and untrimmed. Hairs climbed down from his nostrils. “The Congressman asked me to handle this personally.”
Claire knew who the Congressman was. Johnny Jackson had been Paul’s benefactor almost from the start, awarding him government contracts that should’ve gone to more experienced architects. The man’s early investment had been rewarded over the years. Every time Quinn + Scott was given a new government job, Paul’s personal Amex bill was riddled with charges for chartered planes he never flew in and five-star hotels where he never stayed.
She took a deep breath and asked, “I’m sorry, Captain. I’m feeling a bit discombobulated. Can you please start from the beginning and tell me what happened?”
“Yeah, I can imagine with the funeral and all, this is the last thing you want to be dealing with right now. Like I said, my condolences.” Mayhew took his own deep breath, his far more raspy. “We’ve got a nutshell, but we’re still filling in some blanks. You’re not the first person in the county to have this kind of thing happen. We suspect it’s a gang of young males who read the obituaries, find out when the funerals are, then Google Earth the house and figure out whether it’s worth robbing.”
“Good Lord,” Helen said, “that really is beyond the pale.”
Mayhew seemed just as outraged. “We think the burglars only had a minute or so before the catering van pulled up. They saw the broken glass from the side door.” He pointed to the glass, which was still scattered on the bluestone steps. “The bartender went inside—probably not the best idea. He took a beating, but he managed to stop the gang from cleaning you out.”
Claire looked up at the house again. Paul had been drawing variations of the plans since architectural school. The only thing that changed was the amount of money they could spend. Neither one of them had grown up rich. Claire’s father had been a college professor. Paul’s parents