Margaret Walked Away From Scottsdale With a Blue Mug and Eighty-Nine Million Dollars

The grandfather clock in the corner struck eight, low and steady.

Mr.

Vance pressed a wooden rocker blotter over the blue ink before turning the page.

“The seller handed the brass keys over to my courier twenty minutes ago,” he said, setting two heavy keys on the desk.

I lifted them off the desk.

They were cool from his office air conditioning and heavy on a plain brass ring.

“Where did you leave your car last night, Mrs.

Briggs?”