She cut the power on the smile by half. “Don’t be silly. What are we talking here, a seance or something? Wendell’s dead, my dear.”

“As I understand it, Dick Mills did quite a bit of business with him. I gather he knew Wendell well enough to make the initial ID. I’m handling the followup.”

She continued to smile, but it was all form and no content. She blinked at me with interest. “He actually talked to him? You’ll have to forgive my skepticism, but I’m having a problem with this. The two of them had a conversation?”

I shook my head. “Dick was on his way to the airport at the time, and he didn’t want Wendell to catch sight of him. As soon as he got home, he called one of the CF vice-presidents, who turned around and hired me to fly down there. At this point, the identification isn’t positive, but the chances are good. It looks like he’s not only alive, but headed back to the area.”

“I don’t believe it. There’s been some mistake.” Her tone was emphatic, but her expression suggested she was waiting for the punch line, a half smile flickering. I wondered how many times she’d played the scene in her head. Some police detective or an FBI agent sitting in her living room, giving her the news that Wendell was alive and well…or that his body had finally been recovered. She’d probably lost track of what she wanted to hear. I could see her struggle with a number of conflicting attitudes, most of which were bad.

Agitated, she took a drag of her cigarette and then blew out a mouthful of smoke, her mouth curling up in a parody of mirth as she tried on a new reaction. “Let me hazard a guess here. I’ll bet there’s money involved. A little payoff, is that it?”

“Why would I do that?” I asked.

“What’s the point, then? Why tell me about it? I couldn’t care less.”

“I was hoping you’d let me know if Wendell tried to get in touch.”

“You think Wendell would try to get in touch with me? This is dumb. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Mrs. Jaffe. I can understand how you feel….”

“What are you talking about? The man is dead! Don’t you get it? He turned out to be a con artist, a common crook. I’ve had trouble enough dealing with all the people he cheated. You’re not going to turn around now and tell me he’s still out there,” she snapped.

“We think he faked his own death, probably to avoid prosecution for fraud and grand theft.” I reached for my handbag. “I have a picture if you want to see him. This was done by a police artist. It’s not exact, but it’s close. I saw him myself.” I pulled out the photocopy of the picture, unfolded the paper, and passed it over to her.

She studied it with an intensity that was almost embarrassing. “This isn’t Wendell. This looks nothing like him.” She tossed it back toward the table. The paper sailed off the edge like an airplane taking off. “I thought they did these with computers. What’s the matter? Are the cops here too cheap?” She snatched up my business card again and read my name. I could see that her hand had begun to shake. “Look, Ms. Millhone. Maybe I should explain something. Wendell put me through hell. Whether he’s dead or alive is immaterial from my perspective. You want to know why?”

I could see she was working herself into a snit. “I understand you had him declared dead,” I ventured.

“That’s right. You got it. Very good,” she said. “I’ve collected his life insurance, that’s how dead he is. This is over and done. Finito, you savvy? I’m getting on with my life. You understand what I’m saying? I’m not interested in Wendell one way or the other. I’ve got other problems I’m coping with at the moment, and as far as I’m concerned—”

The telephone began to ring and she glanced back with annoyance. “The machine will pick up.”

The machine clicked in, and Dana intoned the standard advice about a name, telephone number, and a message. Without even thinking about it, we both turned to listen. “Please wait for the beep,” Dana’s recorded voice admonished. We paused dutifully, waiting for the beep.

I could hear a woman using the artificial message-giving voice that machines inspire. “Hello, Dana. This is Miriam Salazar. Your name was given to me by Judith Prancer as a bridal consultant. My daughter, Angela, is getting married next April, and I just thought we should have a preliminary conversation. I’d appreciate a call back. Thanks.” She left her telephone number.

Dana smoothed her hair back, checking the scarf at the nape of her neck. “Jesus, this has been a crazy summer,” she commented idly. “I’ve had two and three weddings every weekend, plus I’m getting ready for a midsummer bridal fair.”