A dark blue sedan pulled up to the concrete curb outside the estate walls and turned off its headlights.

Arthur Pendelton stepped out onto the wet pavement, his silver hair neatly combed under the brim of a dark wool hat.

He carried a worn leather briefcase under his left arm, walking slowly and deliberately up to the iron pickets.

“Are you Nora?” he asked in a low, thin voice that sounded like dry paper sliding across a desk.

“I am,” I said, stepping up to the gate.

I reached into my sweater pocket and took out the white sheet of linen paper Raymond had dictated to me late the night before.