At half past four on Tuesday afternoon, Margaret Holloway pulled her beige sedan onto the gravel driveway of the West Hartford house.

She walked toward the front porch carrying two dark leather golf bags she’d taken from the detached garage, her lavender jacket spotless in spite of the cold, damp air.

Across the street, our neighbor Mrs.

Gable was raking oak leaves along her front walk, stopping to watch us over the iron fence.

“Grant asked me to pick up his tournament clubs,” Margaret said, smoothing her lapels as I met her on the porch steps.

“He’s staying at his club downtown until this awkward business is sorted out.”