At Ease with the Dead by Walter Satterthwait

saucers, sterling silver flatware, a narrow cylindrical crystal vase holding a single red rose.
    Now he crossed the deck and shook my hand. He moved with the easy grace of someone who doesn’t need to prove much of anything to anybody. Yoga or karate can sometimes give you that. So can money. He grinned, a good grin, one that crinkled up the corners of his eyes and knocked fifteen years off his age. “Mr. Croft. Pleased to meet you. I hope you haven’t had breakfast yet, because you’re just in time for the food. I was able to con Milton into doing his eggs Benedict.” There was still some Texas in his voice but you had to listen for it.
    I told him I hadn’t eaten yet, and thanked him, and I nodded to the French doors through which the Asian had disappeared. “That was Milton?”
    He nodded, smiled, and then gestured toward the table. “Please. Have a seat.”
    The two of us sat. He asked me if I wanted coffee or tea and I told him that coffee would be fine. He poured it from a silver pot into my cup. He didn’t spill a drop, and I hadn’t thought for a moment that he would.
    â€œNow,” he said, putting down the pot, “first of all, tell me how Alice is doing. I haven’t had a chance to visit with her for a long time.”
    â€œFine,” I said. “She’s an impressive woman.”
    â€œAn amazing woman. Really the last of the great ladies.”
    Milton came back onto the deck just then, carrying a tray that held two plates of eggs and a crystal decanter of orange juice. He served us without a word and then left again, taking the tray with him.
    â€œOrange juice?” Halbert asked me.
    â€œPlease.”
    He poured some for me, poured some for himself.
    â€œSo,” he said. “What can I do for you? Alice said you wanted to know something about her father’s connection to Halbert Oil.”
    For the third or fourth time now, this time adding an edited version of what Alice Wright had told me yesterday, I went through my missing-body story.
    Between chapters, I enjoyed the breakfast. Strong coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice, cold and sweet. Crisp English muffins, nicely browned Canadian bacon, perfectly poached eggs beneath a glossy lemon-yellow Hollandaise. It was the kind of meal that ultimately provides work for the surgeons who specialize in liposuction.
    â€œAmazing,” he said when I wrapped it up. “More coffee?”
    â€œPlease.”
    He poured each of us a cup. “An amazing story. And Alice genuinely believes that her mother was responsible for her father’s death?”
    I nodded.
    He shook his head slightly. “Funny, isn’t it, how you think you know someone, and then suddenly you learn something like this.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Must’ve been a hell of a burden for her to carry.”
    â€œBut maybe she’s wrong. It all happened a long time ago.” I took a sip of coffee. “She said that Lessing sent regular reports to your father. I was wondering if I could take a look at them.”
    â€œCertainly. I’ve got them here, with the rest of my father’s papers.”
    â€œDid you ever read them?”
    â€œA long time ago.” He smiled. “Not the most thrilling reading in the world. Synclinal troughs, fossilliferous limestones, Permian deposits. The characters are weak, the plot’s rather thin.”
    I smiled. “Nothing personal in them, nothing about the woman Lessing was involved with.”
    â€œNo. Sorry.”
    â€œDid your father ever get any personal letters from Lessing?”
    â€œProbably, but if he did, he never kept them.”
    â€œAside from the woman, was there any good reason for Lessing to be looking for oil on the Navajo Reservation?”
    He nodded. “People have known about oil in that area since the late Eighteen hundreds. The first wells were sunk north of the San Juan at Goodrich, just off the