“What were they like then?” I asked Seton.

“Your parents?”

I nodded. “Before Daddy became Pelican Bay’s best cardiologist.”

The lines in his face crinkled with amusement. “Philip, as all of us, worked long, hard hours.”

“And Mother?”

His hesitation was brief but notable. “She organized the wives’ association. Not many female medical students in those days. Why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “They were so different from each other. I never could understand the attraction.”

“They complemented each other, like yin and yang. Your mother took charge of everything outside of work, which freed your father to be the brilliant doctor that he was.”

“Did they love each other?”

“They were married for almost fifty years.”

“Were they happy?”

“Happiness means different things to different people.”

He had sidestepped my question, but before I could rephrase it, Mother rang a small silver bell with all the drama of a stage production, and Dr. Fellows hurried to escort her into the adjacent dining room.

The florist and caterers had transformed the room. I pictured a television reality show, “How the Rich and Famous Celebrate Thanksgiving,” as I observed the towering topiaries of chrysanthemums, colorful autumn leaves and deep green ivy that marched down the center of the massive refectory table that had once graced an ancient Spanish monastery. Gigantic cornucopia, overflowing with fruits and gourds, flanked the silver serving dishes on the matching sideboard. The table was set with Mother’s heavy silver flatware and engraved napkin rings and covered with enough white damask for a circus tent.

We stood behind our chairs, waiting for Mother to be seated. I thought longingly of the weathered pine table in the sunny kitchen and wished Bill and I could share our meal there with Estelle.

Mother rang her silver bell again. “Dr. Fellows will say grace.”

Before I bowed my head, I caught a sympathetic look from Bill, who had been assigned the seat across from me.

“Heavenly Father,” Dr. Fellows began.

The beeper on my belt shrilled, shattering the room’s quiet.

“Really, Margaret,” Mother said with no effort to hide her disapproval. “Can’t you turn that thing off?”

Dr. Fellows smiled, but Caroline, Michelle and Sandra glared with as much disapproval as if I’d just stripped topless.

“I’m on call, Mother. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll use the phone in the foyer. Please, go ahead. Don’t wait for me.”

I’d have felt relief at being snatched from the jaws of social responsibility, but I knew a summons on a holiday had to be bad news.

I was right.

Darcy Wilkins answered at dispatch when I phoned the station. “We’ve got a drowning at a private residence on the beach.”

“Accidental?”

“It’s your call,” she said. “The M.E.’s on her way.”

She gave me the address. I braced for Mother’s disapproval and returned to the dining room to announce my regrets.

Bill dropped me off at my condo, where I picked up my car for the trek to the beach. As I drove across the causeway, I saw that the city crews had already strung Christmas lights and decorations, and their festive glitter provided an ironic contrast to my mission. Even if the reported drowning turned out to be accidental, one family would have their future Thanksgiving holidays marred forever by memories of tragedy.

The causeway emptied into the commercial district of the beach, high-rise hotels and condos, restaurants, fishing piers and dozens of shops crammed with T-shirts and tacky tourist souvenirs made in Taiwan. The streets were crowded with out-of-state and rental cars and the sidewalks filled with folks who had forfeited the traditions of home for a holiday in the sun.

I turned north and the asphalt of the commercial district gave way to ancient brick streets. Homes, modest in size and style but worth a small fortune because of their beach location, lined the roadway. The street ended at a huge wrought-iron gate, more symbolic than obstructive, since it always stood open. It marked the entrance to the beach’s most upscale residential area, Yacht Club Estates. I drove past the clubhouse where, a few weeks ago, I’d apprehended two armed punks attempting to rob my mother. Most of the houses were screened from the road by massive hedges, since their coveted views came from the Intracoastal Waterway on the east side of the street or the white sand beaches of the Gulf of Mexico on the west. The price of real estate on this end of the beach started at seven figures, then soared like a bottle rocket.

A few blocks past the yacht club, another ornate gate loomed, this barrier the real deal with an electronic surveillance system and pass-card entry. Tonight, however, the usually locked gates stood ajar. Death, the great leveler, hadn’t needed a key to infiltrate this bastion of the wealthy.

I drove through the open portal and approached the cluster of vehicles gathered on the beach side of the street. A P.B.P.D. green-and-white and a paramedics’ van stood with their emergency lights strobing the adjacent sea grape hedges with flashes of red and blue. Adler’s SUV was parked beside the cruiser. After I climbed from my car, he met me at the break in the hedge.

“I’d hoped we’d get through the day without a call,” he said. “No such luck.”

“Did you miss dinner?” I asked.

He shook his head. “We ate early, so I’m missing only football games and the washing up. How about you?”

“No big deal.” I felt only a momentary twinge of guilt over the fact that I’d rather work a signal seven than have Thanksgiving with my relatives. “Who’s the vic?”

“Vincent Lovelace.”

“The cable channel giant?”

“Founder and owner of Your Vacation Channel. And from the looks of this house, this guy didn’t need a vacation. He lived one.”

“He’s on permanent holiday now.”

Adler nodded. “Paramedics pronounced him when they arrived. Doc Cline’s on the way.”

We stepped through the gate in the hedge and the house, a huge four-story tower of glass and steel with lights blazing from every level, rose in front of me. I could see through the rooms of the first floor to the brightly illuminated terrace with its lap pool and the beach and Gulf beyond. On the pool deck lay the body of Vincent Lovelace. Rudy Beaton, a P.B.P.D. patrol officer, was taking statements from two paramedics. A woman with wet hair sat huddled in a blanket on a deck chair on a raised terrace at the north end of the pool.

I recognized Mrs. Lovelace instantly. Until that moment, I’d forgotten that Vincent had married Samantha Weston, daughter of Mother’s best friend Isabelle. With a sinking feeling, I knew, no matter how this investigation sorted out, Mother was not going to be happy.

I walked through the house with its minimalist furnishings, enough vibrant splashes of primary colors for a Jackson Pollock canvas or a day-care center, and immaculate housekeeping. The whole place looked as if it had been staged for a photography shoot for a spread in Architectural Digest. Classical music, a Vivaldi mandolin concerto, flowed from surround-sound speakers and blended with the crash of the surf from the adjacent beach. Sandalwood-scented candles glowed on the fireplace mantel and coffee table but couldn’t quite mask the cooking aromas from an earlier meal.

Adler and I stepped onto the patio where Rudy met us.

“The wife called 911,” he said. “Said she found her husband on the bottom of the pool. Pulled him out and tried CPR, but couldn’t revive him. He was dead when the paramedics got here.”

“Anyone else in the house?” I asked.

Beaton shook his head.

I rounded the pool and scanned the victim. His abbreviated Speedo revealed the tan, fit body of a man clearly in his prime. A large gash ran down his left temple below his thick dark hair.