“You didn’t see the water bottle?”

“No. Since it was black, I guess it could have rolled somewhere, if the police didn’t get it. If it was under something, I might not have noticed it.”

“See the purse?”

“That I would have definitely noticed. I would have insisted the hotel staff hold it for a member of the family. So I guess the EMTs or the police had it. I’m really careful about stuff like that. Especially when someone as crazy as Lewis Goldthorpe is involved.”

“Now that you’ve mentioned Lewis . . . Had you ever met him before?”

“Yes,” Manfred said, with distaste. “I’d heard a lot about him from his mother. He was a source of a lot of pain and concern to her. The last time Rachel met me for a session, he followed her and began pounding on the door while I was with her. He accused me of sleeping with his mom, in really graphic terms, and that was the mildest thing he said.”

“I’m a little surprised she wanted to have a session with you after that,” Smith said.

“I was, too, frankly. She told me he’d been giving her a lot more trouble. Her two daughters seem so nice. I can’t understand how she could have such an asshole for a son.”

“You liked her?”

“Sure.” Manfred felt, all over again, the outgoing flow of her spirit, the terror he’d felt when he understood what that meant. Would she have died if he hadn’t contacted her husband? Had Morton come to fetch her because Manfred had called him? Or would he have been there no matter when she had died? I wonder, Manfred thought, if she’d been at home in bed, would she have died at the same moment?

“Manfred?”

“What?” His head jerked up, and he saw that Smith was looking at him with some concern. “Sorry, I was just . . . I feel bad. She was a nice lady, and I wish she were still here. I don’t get to pick, though.”

“You think her time had come? The wheel spun around and stopped on her name?” Arthur Smith seemed genuinely curious.

That was so close to what Manfred believed that he was startled. “Yes, that’s what I think. I hope the exertion of getting out to see me wasn’t too much of a strain on her. This sounds bad, but I hope if she’d been anywhere else—the doctor’s office, watching a soap opera in bed, getting orange juice at the grocery store—she would have passed away at the same moment. I can’t really know the answer to that. What did her autopsy say?”

“That she was an overweight and sedentary woman past her prime who’d had a bad case of pneumonia. But the tox screen isn’t back yet.”

“Do you think there was something in that water bottle?”

“I’m not saying anything right now, because the results haven’t come back yet,” Smith said firmly.

“So what is all this about?” Manfred pointed at his front door as if he could still see the media people outside.

“A lot of Mrs. Goldthorpe’s jewelry is missing,” Arthur Smith said. “The police got the list from her insurance agency. After her son accused you of stealing it from her purse.”

Manfred could feel his mouth fall open. “You mean he was serious?” he said incredulously. “His mom just died and he’s worried about her jewelry?”

“That’s what he says.”

“She said he’d planned to take it.” Manfred couldn’t help sounding bitter.

“What did she say? Exactly?” This was clearly the question Smith had come to ask.

“She told me that she had had to hide her jewelry from Lewis. She was angry, and she was hurt, too. She said that Lewis had told her she was senile, that he needed to keep her jewelry for her own good.”

“What did you say in response?”

With a certain grimness, Manfred said, “I didn’t say anything. But I thought that before she left, I would be sure to tell her to share the hiding place with her daughters. Or to rent a safe-deposit box and give a power of attorney to Annelle or Roseanna.”

“It’s really bad luck for you that she didn’t get that advice from someone else before she saw you,” Smith said. “Did she ask you to see Lewis’s future?”

“I’d never try to see the future of anyone who wasn’t a client,” Manfred said, rather shocked. “She wanted to talk to Morton first, and he . . . took her with him.”

It was Smith’s turn to look incredulous. “You’re saying a dead man killed his own wife.”

“No!” Manfred could feel his cheeks redden. “I’m not saying that at all.” He took a deep breath. “When I called Morton, he was there in a flash. I was . . . startled, really. I was actually feeling kind of proud, thinking it was my great psychic prowess that drew him with so much speed. Now, I think he was just waiting for the call. I think he knew his wife was failing, and he wanted to be with her for the transition so she wouldn’t be frightened.”

Manfred had the familiar experience of watching a rational man try to cope with something he believed was irrational and incredible.

“Do you . . .” Arthur Smith stopped. He took a deep breath, then cocked his head from one side to another as if he were adjusting his neck bones. “Do you think Mrs. Goldthorpe knew she was dying?”

“No,” Manfred said. He didn’t have to think twice about it. “She did not. She was still really engaged with life. She knew she wasn’t well, but she had no idea that something was happening in her body, something so drastic that it would kill her.”