Marcus patched the call through to the main study where Daniel and I were reviewing architectural drafts for the new downtown community center.

"Mr. Danielson," Marcus's voice crackled over the speaker. "We have a traveler stranded at the outer gates. Car stalled in a snowbank. He claims to be an old acquaintance of your grandfather from the municipal transport board."

Daniel frowned, exchanging a brief, questioning glance with me. "Did he give a name?"

"Judge Arthur Pendelton, sir. Retired federal magistrate."

A retired federal magistrate turning up unannounced during a blizzard was never a coincidence. Daniel pressed the intercom button. "Let him in, Marcus. Escort him directly to the conservatory."

Twenty minutes later, Judge Pendelton—an elderly man wrapped in a heavy wool overcoat with snow clinging to his silver fedora—was seated in the warm glass conservatory, sipping a cup of steaming black coffee.

"I apologize for the dramatic entrance," the judge said, his voice raspy with age. "But when your car dies three miles up a mountain road in a blizzard, you take whatever shelter you can find—even if it's the home of the most infamous family in Ashport."