Iced by Carol Higgins Clark

let that be Regan Reilly, so we can talk to her and then get out of here. To have to escape your own home, Yvonne thought wryly. How do these things happen?
    Outside, Regan stood waiting, glancing around at the sloping street lined with condos. The house backed right into the mountain, which of course meant easy ski-in, ski-out access. Because the Grants lived in town, they didn’t have as much property as Kendra, but Regan supposed that having the ski lift practically in your own backyard more than made up for it.
    The stone exterior of the house was most impressive. A massive carved oak door was adorned with antique hardware. It looked as if it could have been ripped off from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. But it was no kindly cleric who answered the door asking, “What can I do for you, my child?”
    Instead, a stern, hefty woman wearing remarkably unflattering steel-gray glasses and a gray uniform stood before her. Looking at the hairdo gave Regan a headache. The woman’s locks were tightly braided, yanked back and plastered to her skull with hairpins that looked as if they had removed at least her first couple layers of scalp.
    “Who are you?” she demanded.
    “Regan Reilly,” Regan answered in an equally brusque tone. Over the years, Regan had found that it was the only way to deal with the rude people of the world.
    “Oh.” Broom Hilda waved Regan in.
    Regan stepped into the enormous entryway. A second-floor balcony framing the foyer on three sides and numerous doors leading God knows where made Regan wonder just how big the house was. To the right was an elevator. A must, Regan thought, after a hard day of skiing.
    “Mrs. Grant,” the woman bellowed as she led Regan across the marble foyer toward the back of the house, through a family room with a movie-screen-size television, finally reaching a magnificent library with Chinese red leather couches and chairs. “She’s here.”
    The terse announcement made Regan wonder what they’d been saying about her.
    Yvonne and Lester Grant were sitting side by side having coffee. They both got up and shook Regan’s hand. Yvonne was wearing a sleek black ski outfit and looked as if she were ready to do a photo shoot for Vogue . Lester was also decked out in the finest skiwear money could buy. Yvonne looked about forty. Her husband was probably ten years older.
    “Kendra told me you were about to go skiing and I’m very grateful that you waited for me. I know you’ve talked to enough people about this already.”
    “That’s for sure,” the housekeeper mumbled as she started to leave the room.
    “Wait, Bessie,” Yvonne said. “Regan, would you like some coffee?”
    From the look on Bessie’s face Regan decided it was probably best to feign caffeine overload and declined the offer.
    “What time did you say her bus was leaving?” Lester asked his wife after Bessie disappeared around the corner.
    Yvonne laughed and turned to Regan. “That’s Bessie, our housekeeper. She’ll be taking the next few days off.”
    “Sounds like a good idea,” Regan said wryly as she sat down.
    Regan explained to them her involvement with Louis and her knowledge of Eben’s background. “So you can understand why I really want to find out what happened.”
    “That makes three of us,” Lester said.
    “Five of us,” Yvonne corrected him. “Kendra and Sam would like their stuff back too. I only wish I had paid more attention when he was here the other night. But I was playing host to all my friends in the living room and the children were in the family room with that big red thief...”
    “I was helping too,” Lester said in mock protest.
    Yvonne squeezed his hand. “Of course you were, darling. You’re the perfect host.” She leaned over and gave him a little kiss.
    I may throw up, Regan thought. Instead she waited for them to denuzzle before steering the conversation back to the crime.
    “So you both were in the living room,” she said.
    “It really was a great