Her Best Defense. Jackie/Lori Merritt/Myles

the gate so that Lisa could speak through the intercom system that was connected to the house, her picture being snapped all the while her head was stuck out of the backseat window. Soon the gate swung open, and the drive up to the main house began. Lisa, trying to ignore the barrage of flashes and reporters shouting questions, took note of the absence of a keypad anywhere near the gate so that a code could be entered to gain entrance onto the estate grounds. That meant that each car coming in either had to be admitted by way of the intercom or had to be outfitted with some sort of device similar to a garage door opener. She made a mental note to ask Glory how many of these devices they owned and in whose possession they might be. Did she pass them out to prospective and current boyfriends, for instance?

      The driveway was long and U-shaped. Near the house, the place where Mateo’s body had been found was cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape, and a chalk outline was still visible on the pavement and grass. What appeared to be bloodstains also remained.

      “What the hell happened here, lady?” the cabbie asked. “Hey, is this the place where that rich broad murdered her boyfriend? Is that why all those reporters are out there?”

      Oh, the power of the press, Lisa thought. To the driver she said nothing. She just threw some money at him and climbed out of the backseat.

      “You want me to come back later and get you?” he asked, as she walked up to the large, elaborate front doors.

      “I’ll call if I need you,” Lisa threw over her shoulder.

      “Ask for Danny White,” he yelled out the window.

      Lisa nodded but didn’t turn around. She was too interested in the crime scene at the moment and she certainly didn’t want the cab driver hanging around any longer than necessary, asking her questions she wasn’t going to answer. Soon she heard the cab moving back down the driveway.

      Lisa rang the bell. In moments, one of the ornate doors opened and she found herself looking at a young Hispanic woman who appeared to be still in her teens.

      “Are you Maria?” she asked.

      “Oh, no,” the young woman said with a heavy accent. “Maria no feel well.”

      “That will be all, Connie.” Glory seemed to appear out of thin air behind the young woman. “Come in, Lisa. Is this going to take long?” There was blatant impatience in her voice.

      “It will take as long as it takes, Glory,” Lisa said, managing to keep the edge out of her voice. Obviously Glory was still planning on her tennis match, as she was dressed in a sleeveless white sweater with a long-sleeved white sweater wrapped around her shoulders, a white sweatband on each wrist, a pair of white tennis shoes and a short, short white skirt. Lisa couldn’t help wondering how she managed to have such a good tan at this time of year. Probably a tanning salon, but maybe she’d spent a month in the Caribbean. Oh, the advantages of great wealth, she thought with an inner sigh.

      “Fine,” Glory huffed as she walked Lisa into a room that was easily recognizable as a library because of all of the beautifully bound books lining the walls. “We can sit in here.”

      The room was exquisite; the whole house was beautiful. Spectacular, actually. Lisa had been in extraordinary homes before, but none quite like the Witherington mansion.

      “Have a seat. Over there by the fireplace,” Glory said with a careless wave of her hand.

      The fireplace was without flame or heat, neither of which was needed for temperature or atmosphere during this rather strained meeting. Not that it should be strained, Lisa thought, telling herself again, as she had on the train, to overlook Glory’s grating personality and behave with grace and unruffled professionalism.

      Lisa chose one of the butter-soft leather chairs and set her briefcase down on the carpet next to it, thinking that Glory would immediately join her. Instead, Glory approached a few steps and asked, “What would you like to drink?”

      “I would love a glass of cold water.”

      “Now that’s exciting,” Glory drawled, and turned away to head over to the bar that Lisa had noticed, albeit with very little interest.

      Now she took full note of it. The bar and six stools were constructed of an uncommon wood—to Lisa, at least—possibly imported from some far-off exotic place, elaborately carved and stained. The back bar was a series of glass-fronted shelves that suddenly showed their wares when the lights came on. Obviously Glory had hit a switch, and while Lisa watched, she poured some kind of amber liquor into a small glass and drank it in one swallow.

      Lisa gaped but said nothing. She had no right to judge Glory, even though she would much rather have her client totally clearheaded while they talked.

      Glory walked from the bar to Lisa’s chair carrying two glasses, one with water and ice chips, which she handed to Lisa, and the small shot glass, refilled of course, for herself. She sat nearby in another leather chair.

      Lisa murmured “Thanks” for the water, took a drink and then held the glass with her left hand while picking up her briefcase with her right. “I need my notepad and pen,” she said, noticing Glory sipping from her glass. She also noticed Glory’s facial expression—impatient and petulant—and her body language. The woman was poised to jump and run. Lisa had to bite her tongue not to harangue Glory again about her unbelievably naive attitude. Anyone who didn’t take a murder charge seriously couldn’t possibly be operating with a full set of marbles.

      Lisa frowned as she pondered an insanity defense. Given Glory’s complete absence of fear or even an appearance of understanding or caring about the charge against her, that might be her best bet, Lisa thought.

      “Glory, would you consent to talking with a psychiatrist?”

      “What for?”

      “Well, you have no memory of the homicide. Is it completely impossible that you did shoot Mateo during a blackout and simply don’t recollect it?”

      Glory looked pained. “If that’s the best you can do, we should probably find ourselves another attorney.” She leaned forward, her blue eyes blazing. “I’m not talking to a psychiatrist, I am not pleading temporary insanity, I’m not going to jail! Did you get all of that or would you like me to repeat it?”

      Lisa was stunned. This woman, who most of the time acted as though she were living in some sort of dream world, was fully cognizant of the situation. What Glory Witherington was, along with being drop-dead gorgeous and wealthy beyond measure, was either a sensational actress or a split personality.

      Lisa opened her notebook and took her pen in hand. With her mind racing a mile a minute behind a passive expression, she said calmly, “I understood every word perfectly, plus I learned that you’re not the airhead that you normally pretend to be. Perhaps you and I are finally getting to know each other. Let’s get started, all right?”

      Glory knocked back the second shot and put the glass on a small table to her right. “Started and finished,” she retorted. “I have plans, remember?”

      “Oh, yes, your tennis game. First, let me mention Maria. Connie, the young lady who answered the door said Maria wasn’t well. Is it something serious?”

      “She’s just hysterical over finding a body in the driveway when she came to work that morning.”

      “So she isn’t ill, she’s upset?”

      “I thought Maria was strong and sensible, but she lost it that day.”

      “Lost it? Isn’t that understandable? It surely must have affected you in a similar way.”

      Glory shrugged. “I don’t happen to be a hysterical female, and Maria is. She’ll get over it.”

      “I certainly hope so. I need to talk to her. What’s her telephone number and street address?”

      “Oh, for crying out loud,” Glory complained, but she got to her feet and started for the door. “I’ll get it. Wait here.”

      She