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DEAD MEN'S TALES

by

PHYLLIS A. HUMPHREY

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Copyright © 2016 by Phyllis A. Humphrey

Cover design by Estrella Designs

Gemma Halliday Publishing

http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

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BOOKS BY PHYLLIS A. HUMPHREY

SNEAK PEEK

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CHAPTER ONE

I suppose I first heard the saying, "Dead men tell no tales," when I was nine or ten, at a Hollywood movie where the pirates made the aristocrats walk the plank. However, I never expected to have to disprove it. Not me. I'm Olivia Grant—Livvie to my friends—age 39, widowed and divorced once each, brown hair and five pounds overweight. All right, seven pounds, but who's counting? I live in a suburban, split-level house, teach bridge, and deliver teddy bears to children in the hospital. I'm not the type to try to solve crimes and end up in a confrontation with a killer. Right?

Wrong.

On a scale of one to ten, I considered working from time to time in this office a minus three. Boring. About on a par with watching water freeze. However, I hadn't agreed to help out for excitement. Yes, my brother, Brad, had been a San Francisco cop and was now a private investigator, but how much excitement could there be in finding a few missing persons—once a missing dog—and solving an occasional case of insurance fraud?

Just a few months before, while visiting relatives in England, I'd helped solve the murder of my uncle's trophy wife and decided that qualified me to join Brad in his new PI footsteps. Or at least keep him organized.

Yet, on that Monday morning in February, I attempted to unlock the hallway door and found the knob turned at my touch. Brad—or maybe the cleaning crew—had forgotten to lock it the night before.

I muttered a G-rated curse. Anyone could have gotten in. In fact, someone had. In one of the two straight wooden chairs against the left-hand wall of the secretary's office sat a young woman. She looked a mess: red-rimmed eyes, disheveled hair, ashen face. Familiar ashen face.

Although I'd known her since she was three, another beat went by before I recognized Debra Hammond, daughter of Rose Hammond, who'd once been my best friend.

"Daddy's dead!" The words exploded before I could say hello. "He's been murdered."

Sometimes time doesn't fly. It gets stuck in a holding pattern. Like at that moment. My heart pumped as if I'd run up the four flights of stairs to the office. I dropped into the chair next to her.

"Your father was murdered?" It didn't compute. That just didn't happen to people I knew. Not Harry, anyway. Although I hadn't seen him in years, I couldn't imagine Harry Hammond, a pleasant man, pillar-of-the-community type, being murdered.

"The police think Mother did it."

Impossible. Rose Hammond couldn't kill anyone, much less her husband, who'd become wealthy enough to give her a house in Hillsborough—the town where Bing Crosby once lived—and enough fur coats to carpet the former Candlestick Park.

"She didn't do it." Debra returned to crying into a soggy handkerchief. The long blonde hair on either side of her pretty face hid large blue eyes coated with thick, wet lashes.

Rose and I met when her daughter Debra and my twin brother and sister—Brad and Samantha, now 29—started preschool. We became good friends, and, together with our husbands, enjoyed dinner on a free Saturday night. Then my husband Stephen died, and, being the odd woman, I stopped accepting her invitations. I married again, but as it turned out, I chose a man with more raging hormones than brain cells. A year later, I divorced him. My friendship with Rose had dwindled to notes on Christmas cards. A heavy mantle of guilt dropped on me. I should have kept in touch anyway, invited her for lunch in the city. Something.

"Tell me what's happened. When? How?"

Her words came in spasms. "Saturday night…the Awards Banquet… Someone killed him… Not Mother!"

"Of course not." I confess I felt a little queasy at the thought. In spite of the passage of time, I still considered Rose my best friend. She'd been there for me when Stephen died in that awful freeway accident, bringing dinner, holding my hand, and letting me talk or cry. Tears threatened to erupt again. This time Rose needed me.

"Is she in jail? Did she call her lawyer?" I visualized Rose in one of those interrogation scenes from television cop shows with a detective behind the one-way glass. I put my arm around Debra's shoulder.

"She's not in jail, but they took her in for questioning last night. She's taking it very hard. On medication, asleep when I left. She talked to her lawyer, but, knowing Brad is a private investigator, she wants him to help." Her voice rose to a high pitch, and she leaned toward me, clutching my hand in a painful grip.

"You have to help us. That is, Brad. If you'll just ask him. He can find the real killer."

"Of course he can." I had no idea if Brad could find a murderer. Although he might have done so while on the San Francisco police force or during the six months he spent apprenticed to an older, experienced PI and just never told me. However, I suspected he'd jump at the chance to try. As for me, boredom had just cartwheeled out the door. Tension spread through my body along with conviction. Not only would Brad help Rose, I'd help Brad!

He accepted me because I had an independent income and came cheap. He planned to hire a secretary to answer the phone and do his typing and filing, while I learned the business and watered the philodendrons, which were my idea anyway. He didn't really expect me to meddle in his cases, although he sometimes—perhaps trying to impress a client—called me an associate. Besides feeling my London caper gave me the needed credentials, I wanted to feel needed and put my experience to good use. Once I'd been wife, older sister, chauffeur, and comforter. I'd been surrogate queen of the castle and looked up to as Miss Know-it-All. Now, I was none of the above and pretty sure there were no openings anywhere for benevolent dictator.

As if summoned by my confident words to Debra, Brad himself came into the office. He wore a suit, but his tie dangled casually from around his collar. His top shirt button was open, and he wore no coat. Although I wished he'd dress more warmly on cold days, at least he'd grown up without embarrassing our parents too much. He had his father's height—six feet—his dark, wavy hair and blue eyes. He also had his perfect nose and chin, which also didn't hurt his popularity with girls or even mature women.

Our parents hadn't approved of his choice of occupation, but twenty-nine-year-old men never listened to parents or their ten-years-older sisters or even substitute mothers, which is what I'd become when our real mother found unexpected twins too much to handle. Both he and Samantha began making their own decisions at twelve, so they'd had plenty of practice.

Brad paused in the doorway, and I introduced him to Debra, whom he hadn't seen since junior high. He didn't comment on the fact she appeared to have been in a car wash with the top down. Instead, he scanned the trim figure not totally concealed by a designer sweater and jeans.

Debra didn't appear willing or able to repeat what she'd told me, so I did. As I spoke, differing emotions flashed across Brad's face. He'd have to learn to disguise them if he hoped to emulate Philip Marlowe or one of his other fictional detective heroes.

"Right. I just read it in the paper." He raised the folded Chronicle he'd been holding in his left hand and pointed it at me. "I didn't connect it."

I told him about Rose wanting a private investigator. "So Debra wants you to find the murderer."

"Damn right…I mean…yeah." He opened the inner door to his private office. "Let's discuss this inside."

Brad's idea of the appropriate office would have been Sam Spade's in The Maltese Falcon (an old movie he'd watched dozens of times on television) and not just because we lived in San Ricardo, a suburb south of San Francisco. To him, the more closely his office resembled a dingy bus depot, the better.

Instead, he'd had to rent a sterile section in one of those glass and concrete monoliths that had sprung up all over the Bay Area during the last building boom. Rents there were cheap so the owners could keep a floor or two occupied. Even with that price concession, he sometimes had to supplement his income by dipping into the inheritance from our wealthy, recently deceased British grandfather. Both of the offices were stark white, with gray Berber carpeting, but he'd furnished his in black desks and chairs, a file cabinet, and coat rack, all from Repo Depot.

We arranged ourselves around the desk, Brad in his swivel chair behind it, his back to the window that provided a view of the San Mateo-Hayward Bridge, and Debra and I in the two chairs in front.

After we sat, Brad opened the newspaper to the story. I hadn't read the paper that morning. Although the murder took place Saturday night, it apparently happened too late to make Sunday's paper, despite that edition being the size of an SUV. Brad glanced at it.

"Most of this stuff is probably from old newspaper morgue files." He looked up at Debra. "It says your father was founder and president of Hammond Jewelers—turned it into a successful California chain."

She had regained some composure, although her face seemed pale enough to disappear into the wall behind her. However, she didn't say anything.

"He was found Saturday night at the Delbert Hotel," Brad read. "How'd he come to be there?"

Debra cleared her throat. "He attended the annual awards banquet of the Bay Meadows Mall Association and expected to give a speech and hand out the award statues."

"Apparently someone used one of those statues as the murder weapon."

"That's what the police told us."

"You were there?" Brad pulled out a yellow legal pad and scrawled some notes.

"Yes. Mother and I had driven to the hotel…"

Brad stopped her. "Wait a minute. Your father and mother didn't go together?"

"No." She took a deep breath. "According to my mother, Father had gone to Los Angeles Wednesday morning. He expected to come home Friday night, but something came up, and he stayed another day."

Brad paused a moment. "You live with your parents?"

"No, I have my own apartment. I went to this awards banquet since Daddy is—was—president of the Merchants Association this year." She cleared her throat again. "He said he'd go straight to the hotel from the airport, so Mother phoned and asked me to pick her up. Then they wouldn't have two cars to drive home later."

"Okay. So how'd he end up"—he glanced at the newspaper again—"in the linen storage room?"

A linen closet? I supposed there were worse places to die. Better surrounded by fresh-smelling tablecloths, napkins waiting to be stuffed artistically into wine glasses, and a smattering of fake candles, than in some rat-infested alley.

Debra took her time describing the evening. "First, we had cocktails, and then Daddy asked someone where he could go to read over his notes before dinner."

"Did you see him go into the linen room?" Brad tilted his head up, his pencil poised in midair, like a miniature javelin he planned to hurl.

"No." She frowned. "One of the waiters escorted him to the far end of the dining room, and then they went behind a wall. I didn't see him enter any door after that."

"Okay, what happened next?"

"After a while, someone announced dinner was being served and told us all to be seated."

"Who sat at your table? How many?"

"They were round tables for eight. Besides us, there was Amanda…"

Brad stopped writing and glanced at the newspaper account again. "That would be Amanda Dillon?"

"Yes, my father's assistant. Also John Ziegler, the vice president of Daddy's company, along with his wife, and Carl Novotny, the marketing director."

"No Mrs. Novotny?" Brad asked.

"No, they're divorced—or perhaps still in the process. They separated last year."

Brad jotted a note and looked up again. "That's seven. No eighth person at the table?"

"No. Amanda is single and didn't bring anyone."

While Brad studied his pad, I visualized Amanda Dillon as one of those over-the-hill spinsters, an all-business harpy who wore no-nonsense shoes and got aroused over a balance sheet.

"Novotny is the man who found the body," Brad said.

"That's right. Daddy still hadn't returned, so Carl said to begin, and he'd get him. He left and didn't come back."

"How long was he gone?"

"I'm not sure. Finally, we noticed a commotion going on near the doorway, and the next thing we knew, policemen showed up, guarding the exits. Then a man came over and got my mother and…" Debra dropped her gaze and put her handkerchief to her face again.

Brad filled in the silence. "Okay, I've got the picture. Between the time your father went into that room and the time Novotny found him, someone apparently went in, picked up one of the metal statues to be handed out as awards, and bashed him over the head with it."

I wished Brad hadn't been so blunt. As if he weren't discussing Debra's father but some derelict who just happened to be living-impaired. Yet, she only nodded.

"You never went near the linen storage room yourself?" he asked her.

"No, I didn't."

I wondered where Brad intended to go with this line of questioning. Did he just want to know if she'd seen anyone suspicious, or did he somehow suspect her?

He frowned. "Did you ever leave the dining room?"

"No." A pause. "Well, I went to the ladies' room."

"Where is that in relation to the dining room?"

"In the direction of the… Oh, I see what you mean. Daddy had gone that same way, the same hallway, perhaps."

Did that admission give Brad a reason to suspect her?

"Did you see him or anyone else at that time?" he asked.

"No, I just looked for a door with the figure of a woman on it. Sometimes they make them kind of, you know, obscure."

I could relate to that, remembering past encounters with restroom doors adorned with pictures instead of Ladies or Gentlemen. Like I'm supposed to know the difference between a rooster and a hen.

Brad checked with the newspaper account again. "It says Amanda Dillon went into the linen room when she brought the statues. Who else?"

"I don't know." Debra shifted in her chair. "Anyone could have gone into that hall and not be seen from the dining room."

"How about your mother?"

"No." She stopped. "Well, she went to the ladies' room too."

"For how long?"

I glared at Brad. Did he suspect Rose? Did he believe the woman who once served him milk and cookies after school killed her husband and then calmly sat down to eat chicken Kiev? I planned to have a long, serious talk with him. Soon.

CHAPTER TWO

I missed Debra's answer. Next, Brad said, "Were you questioned by the police?"

"Yes. They asked me about everything Daddy had done that evening. Asked if I knew of anyone who might want to kill him." She managed to say that without another bout of sobbing, but her hands remained clenched around her leather handbag.

"And do you know anyone like that?"

"Of course not. Daddy is the most kind, gentle…"

Brad waited while she got her emotions under control again, then spoke in a softer tone. "Did you know anything about his business? His company is very successful, and money is a powerful motive."

"I don't see how killing my father would help anyone else. My mother will inherit everything, I suppose." She leaned forward and spoke vehemently. "And she did not kill him. She loved him. You've got to find out who really did it."

"I'll try, but the police don't like private investigators invading their space." He smiled, as if trying to appear more encouraging. "Of course, I can question people, but if I find out anything, I'm supposed to tell the police. On the other hand, they're not obliged to tell me anything."

"But you will try?" She delved into her handbag and pulled out a checkbook and pen. "And Mother doesn't expect you to do it for nothing, just because we're friends." She looked up at Brad, pen poised over the check she'd started to write. "You need a retainer, don't you?"

Fortunately, novels and films have made lay people aware of the private investigator's need for money up front, and I visualized some of Brad's bills getting paid with his usual five-hundred-dollar retainer.

Debra continued. "As I told Olivia, Mother knows I'm here. She wants you on the case and will take over any further payments. Meanwhile, she wants you to start right away, so I'll give you two thousand right now, if that's all right."

Brad said, "Two thousand is fine," and my throat suddenly made a sound like I'd swallowed a frog. I clamped my hand over my mouth. Besides, having balanced his bank statement more than once, I knew his net worth and suspected the building owner probably never confused charity with rent.

Debra pushed the completed check across the desk toward him, and Brad pulled a client form from his desk drawer and had her sign it.

Having done that, she stood. "I'd better get back to Mother. I've taken a few days' leave of absence from my job to be with her. We have a million things to do, and the telephone never stops ringing."

We followed her to the door, and Brad said, "Don't worry too much about the police thinking your mother's guilty. Probably they don't. Part of their method is to scare people into admitting something. Believe me, they do it to everyone."

That seemed to comfort her a little.

As we returned to the reception room, I said, "May I see her today? Is she up to it?"

"I think she'll want to see you, but let me find a good time first. I'll give you a call later, all right?" She picked up a gorgeous suede jacket from the chair she'd been sitting in earlier. She might not live with her wealthy parents anymore, but her taste in clothes hadn't suffered.

Brad opened the door for her. She stuffed her handkerchief into her bag, gave me a brief, tight smile, and walked out.

Brad went back to his own office, and I watched from the open door. He sat at his desk, grabbed a pencil, and jotted more notes on the yellow legal pad.

His first murder case, perhaps, and a case definitely more interesting than his usual ones, had just dropped in his lap. I wanted to know how he'd solve it. Since Brad consulted his mentor only occasionally now he'd opened his agency, I still had merely the barest notion of a private investigator's methods of detection. Brad, like most men, didn't share information readily. Besides, he lived in his own apartment and, had it not been for my helping in his office, might go weeks without contacting me.

"What will you do first?" I spoke from the doorway, my words carrying easily across the small room.

"Make lists, things to do, people to talk to." He tilted his head down, eyes narrowed, and lowered his voice to a deep whisper. "Persons of interest."

"You haven't even begun. Who are you interested in?"

"Everyone who went to the banquet that night is of possible interest. Even someone who wasn't invited."

"That's a lot of people you need to question. I thought of chiding you for taking so much of Debra's money as a retainer, but with such a long list, I can see now it won't be nearly enough."

He ignored my gibe. "Hammond made almost as much money as Sam Walton. Their jewelry stores show up in half the malls in the state, and it's a high-markup business." He forestalled my next comments by hurrying on. "But I'm not gonna take advantage of them. I won't send another bill until I run out of this." He stabbed Debra's check with the eraser end of his pencil.

Remembering the negative number I'd seen on his financial statement, I shrugged, came into the room, and sat down across from him.

"Okay, Sir Galahad, who are you planning to question?"

"Carl Novotny for one. Maybe he killed Hammond and only said he found him already dead. Amanda Dillon. She brought the statues in. Maybe she whacked him over the head with one of them. The vice president, Ziegler. Something may have been going on inside the company. Like I told Debra, money is a powerful motive."

"So we have three suspects."

"'We'? What's this 'we' business? You're not an associate or even my secretary."

"You don't have a secretary, remember? You told me you planned to hire one but hadn't got around to it yet. So far, it's only me."

He shrugged.

"Anyway, I'm here now, and I intend to help. After all, Rose is my best friend."

"You can help like you always do—answering the phone, typing, filing…"

I leaned forward. "I'm capable of much more than that, and you know it. I'm a bridge teacher, and how many times have I been elected president of clubs?"

"Okay, okay, you're right. I'll find something relevant for you to do."

So much for my mother's advice about modesty being a virtue. Not if you wanted to earn respect from your own relatives.

He ignored me to pick up his yellow pad and write on it again. "Thanks for reminding me."

"Reminding you of what?"

"To add Mrs. Hammond and Debra."

"You're not serious? Debra came here to ask you to find the killer. A guilty person wouldn't do that."

"I'm glad you think I'm good enough to find the real killer, but maybe Debra isn't that confident."

"Preposterous. So is adding Rose to your list." Even if he was my brother, he obviously needed some help. "Remember, I know her. She's incapable of such a thing."

"You used to know her. I haven't heard you mention her in years. People change. Times change. Maybe her marriage to Hammond lacked the candy and flowers part. Besides, Rose isn't the one who asked me to find the murderer."

"That doesn't mean she's guilty. Debra says her mother loved her father."

"What do children really know about their parents' marriage? Even if mom and pop screamed at each other day and night, the kids, even grown ones, make themselves believe it isn't serious."

I knew he spoke the truth, but I still hated to admit it in my friend's case. "Who made you an authority on marriage and families? You have no wife or children."

"I studied a helluva lot of psychology, remember? And I was a San Francisco cop. Private investigators have to know these things, especially for murder cases. Like the NRA says, 'Guns don't kill people. People kill people.'"

I gave him a look that showed I didn't think much of that cliché.

Brad counted off on his fingers. "Besides the means and opportunity, they need a motive, and people closest to the victim usually have the best motives."

I put as much disgust into my voice as I could manage. "Oh, you're just like the police. Always pouncing on the closest person instead of doing some legwork to find the real murderer."

One of my favorite films popped into my mind, one I knew Brad had also seen because I owned a DVD and played it for him on a cold winter night when he still lived at home.

"Remember The Fugitive? Because he was handy, ipso facto, the husband was guilty. They wouldn't even try to find the one-armed man."

"You're talking fiction."

"Don't tell me you aren't aware of how many innocent people get convicted of crimes. Hardly a month goes by that someone isn't released from prison—even from death row—because someone else confessed, or DNA evidence proved he wasn't guilty. The governor of Illinois halted executions for that very reason."

Brad grinned at me again before speaking. "Boy, you're really on a roll this morning. Maybe I should let you help me. Put all that righteous indignation to good use."

In my zeal, I'd kept leaning forward, but then I relaxed and slumped back into the chair. Yet I continued to think about my argument. Thank goodness for DNA testing. Even with that, not every innocent person on death row got rescued, and, since nobody bothered to establish their innocence after their execution, there might have been a lot more. The thought of dying for a crime you didn't commit made my stomach churn. It was one of the reasons I was against the death penalty.

"Well, you know I'm right," I finished.

"Okay." He stood. "You stay here and…"

"Wait a minute. You just said…"

"You have to wait for Debra to call you anyway, and then you can go up there and talk to Mrs. Hammond."

"I should hope so."

To tell the truth, I hadn't expected him to give in that easily. I thought I'd have to bombard him with an hour's worth of reasons why I should get involved. On the other hand, he undoubtedly knew I'd go to see Rose anyway, so perhaps he felt he might as well give in gracefully.

"The fact is, I have to talk to Rose myself. She's my client. After that, you can ask your own questions, maybe the same ones I asked Debra. The more information, the better."

I thought of his earlier comment to Debra. "By the way, are you sure it's okay for you to be doing this at all?"

"Since Rose said she wanted me, there's no problem." He smiled at me. "Don't worry. I'm not going to interfere in the police investigation. However, like any private citizen, I'm allowed to talk to people." He headed for the door. "Of course, they don't have to talk to me if they don't want to. Or you. Of course, I'm sure Rose will cooperate."

"Obviously she wants you involved."

He stopped at the door and turned to me again, this time as if he actually noticed me. "Under the circumstances, do you think you should be wearing black? Why not a more cheerful color?"

When I'd dressed that morning, I hadn't known I'd learn about a friend's death and, because of the gloomy winter skies, chose my black pantsuit with a black-and-gray striped sweater underneath. Ultimately appropriate, but Brad, like many men, wouldn't know.

"I'm only wearing black until they make something darker."

He grinned and changed the subject. "Express my condolences about Harry, please."

"Aye, Aye, sir." I gave him a salute. "Where are you going?"

"I'll start in on the rest of the gang." He put his finger alongside his nose like Paul Newman in The Sting—another film we both loved—winked, and went out.

I sighed. He resembled his father, but his energy and curiosity were like mine. With a confidence born of nothing but my flimsy knowledge of detection, mostly gained from my substituting in his office—to say nothing of plenty of hope and too much adrenaline—I was sure we'd solve the case.

CHAPTER THREE

After Brad left, I turned on the computer, entered his few notes, and printed them. Then I put the sheet of paper in a folder marked Hammond and placed it on his desk. I spent the next hour thinking about Rose and what we learned from Debra. I made my own list of persons of interest, which probably looked a lot like Brad's. However, I added some Brad hadn't mentioned, such as the ones Harry visited in Los Angeles. Maybe something happened on his trip down there that provoked the murder.

While I mulled this over, Debra called and said her mother wanted to see me right away and gave me directions. I grabbed my coat and searched Brad's deep desk drawer. One of his recorders was gone, and I debated slipping his spare one into my purse. Then I decided he'd taken it for his interview with Rose, so I didn't need to. Besides, he hadn't asked me to do it. I just thought it was a good idea. Like many professional detectives, he liked to have a record of interviews or impressions of a person or scene while it remained fresh and useful. His smart phone could do that too, so it seemed that avenue was covered.

I didn't bother with the freeway just to go to Hillsborough, which was the adjoining suburb on the peninsula. I drove slowly through the winding, tree-lined streets, enjoying the sight of houses owned by people who, in former years, had flown on the Concorde, sailed on the QEII and dropped names like Bill and Hillary. (Clinton. That Bill and Hillary.)

The Hammond house sat so far back that it couldn't be seen from the road. Before I got to the black wrought-iron gates surrounding the place, I passed a gaggle of news reporters lounging against their parked cars and talking. A few smoked cigarettes, but on seeing me, they dropped their butts and snapped to attention. Someone must have told the press not to get too close, so I ignored them and kept on going up the long driveway. At the top, the gate was open, and the house came into view. Three stories, colonial architecture, white with black shutters. The driveway circled in front, and, to its right, sat a low building containing three two-car garages.

Debra had suggested that, rather than park in front, I drive to the back, so I continued straight ahead alongside the house. I came to another large, paved parking area between that and the fenced-off garden, swimming pool, and cabana.

Rose had really come up in the world, although, even when we met more than twenty years before, her house in San Ricardo had been larger and fancier than mine. Now, I half expected to see a line of servants decked out like the ones on Downton Abbey.

Her higher income level never bothered me. I didn't envy people who had more material goods than I did. I just thought that if I had them, I'd have to find a place for them, clean them, or insure them. As for Rose being a serious suspect in her husband's murder, she had nothing to worry about. In this country, as some comic once said, you're guilty until proven wealthy.

I stopped the car in front of yet another garage, entered the back door of the house, which stood open, and came face to face with a short, plump Hispanic woman. After I told her my name, she waved me on through the country-style kitchen.

Beyond the kitchen, in a hexagonal breakfast room at the front corner of the house, four long windows faced the lawn. Rose sat on a cushion in a window seat but got up when I entered, and we hugged like long-lost sisters.

When she released me from a painfully tight grip, I saw a woman as thin as a pretzel stick. I wondered if she wasn't carrying that old adage, "You can never be too rich or too thin," too far.

Again, I felt guilty for having let our friendship dwindle to notes on Christmas cards. "How are you holding up?"

She waved me to one of the chairs next to the round, glass-topped table and returned to her place on the window seat before she answered me. "This is horrible, just horrible. As if losing Harry wasn't bad enough… The press… You can't imagine."

She leaned her head back against one of the windows and closed her eyes. She seemed tired, with lines around her eyes and mouth, which she held tightly closed. A woman hanging on for dear life.

"You don't have to talk about Harry's murder if you don't want to," I said. "I read the account in the newspaper, and Debra filled us in on details."

"I wish I could tell you something." She gave me a look of bewilderment. "I know absolutely nothing. Harry went into that linen storage room, and the rest of us went to the dining room, and then police appeared from everywhere."

She broke off, and while I waited, I noticed her short, ash-blonde hair seemed perfectly coiffed. For at least three months after my husband Stephen died, I looked like the "before" picture in an extreme makeover, but perhaps people as rich as the Hammonds did things differently. Maybe she had a live-in hairdresser as well as a cook, housekeeper, gardener, pool boy, and whatever. Her heavily applied makeup, however, didn't hide the circles under her eyes.

"Brad's been here already and asked a few questions, but I couldn't tell him much."

"We thought it might be easier if you and I just talked like the old-time friends we are."

She gave a weak smile and nodded.

I took a breath and plunged in, repeating some of the things Debra had told us that morning.

"Debra said you and Harry arrived at the banquet separately. Did you speak to him before he went into the linen storage room?"

"Yes, briefly, in the reception area where they served cocktails."

"Did he say anything unusual at that time, anything that might be a clue, however farfetched it might seem, to his murder?"

"He said something unexpected had come up in Los Angeles, which kept him a day longer. That's all." She hesitated, as if trying to remember. "Almost immediately he said he needed a quiet place to study his material, and he left to ask someone about it."

"Did you see where he went?"

"He followed a waiter toward a hallway at the back of the room. I never saw him after that." She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her navy wool skirt and put it up to her eyes.

Good. She had tears to wipe away. I've always believed it's better to get your grief out instead of bottling it inside.

"Did you see anyone else go toward that hallway?"

Rose seemed to sit up straighter, and she almost spat the words. "I saw Amanda Dillon follow Harry in that direction."

An icy chill from her contemptuous tone made me shiver. "I understand she brought in the box with the awards statues."

"Not by herself. They were apparently quite heavy, and a young man followed her. He carried the box."

"Did this young man remain the entire time Amanda stayed in that room?"

"I can't be sure, but I wouldn't think so."

"Anyone go in after Amanda left?"

"No. If anyone else went there, I didn't notice."

I shrugged and changed the subject. "When Harry didn't return from Los Angeles on Friday as he planned, were you concerned?"

"No. He has so many business affairs to handle, he sometimes forgets to call me." She stood and moved toward me. Her eyes shone like blue steel. "Look, Olivia, I know it's natural to ask these questions, but that was one of the most painful parts of the police interrogation. They asked over and over about our personal relationship. I could feel the hostility. I knew they thought I killed him, but even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't have. I stayed in the dining room talking to friends the entire time."

I remembered something Debra had said. "You didn't go to the ladies' room, for instance?" I hoped she'd say no. A little voice in my head repeated, "Say no, Rose," but she said, "Yes."

Her face turned the faintest pink, and she resumed her seat. "I left for only a minute or two after they announced dinner. To wash my hands."

"You know that's located in the same hallway as the linen room, don't you?"

"I didn't then. I do now. The police pointed it out to me." She sounded bitter, then leaned forward, eager to talk, her fingers kneading the balled-up handkerchief. "You haven't asked me if I saw Amanda after she took the statues to Harry."

"Did you?"

"As it happens, I did." She licked her lips briefly. "And she looked nervous. On her way back to her table, she passed close to me, and her face seemed flushed. Since she's a woman who never shows emotion, I couldn't help noticing the change."

So maybe the harpy had a motive, like a lower salary than a man in the same job would have received. I knew sex discrimination was still alive and well in corporate America.

"What time did she do that?"

"Before we went into the dining room."

"Have you spoken to her since Saturday? Did you ask her why she looked nervous?"

"She telephoned me the next day, asking questions, but she refused to answer mine, almost slammed the receiver in my ear."

I took that as an opening. "So you and Amanda Dillon aren't exactly on friendly terms."

She spent an inordinate amount of time twisting the handkerchief into a small rope. "You might as well know the truth. I think she was having an affair with my husband."

Her statement struck me into silence. The harpy had some other qualities besides understanding spreadsheets? Even more shocking, was mild-mannered Harry having an affair with her? Years had passed since I'd seen him, but I suppose he was entitled to a midlife crisis like anyone else.

Finally, I asked, "How do you know? Did he admit it?"

Her voice dropped to a lower pitch. "He wouldn't."

"Then why do you think so?"

"Because she's a gold digger."

The old-fashioned expression made me visualize 1940s movies.

"Did she want him to marry her, or did he give her money?"

She sighed. "Maybe both. I'm not sure. Olivia, you're a mature woman. You've been married twice and divorced. You've been, er, out there."

Before I could stop myself, I said, "It's a jungle out there."

Rose ignored my comment and leaned toward me. "You know that women don't age as gracefully as men. Men have character lines. Women have wrinkles. Men become more distinguished looking. Women just get old."

True or not, I'd always pictured Rose as too sophisticated to utter such clichés.

"Furthermore, my husband is—was—very wealthy, and wealthy men are targets for young women who want to advance themselves. To steal a man from his wife and enjoy the good things that the wife helped him create in the first place…" She seemed to realize the bitterness in her voice, stopped, pursed her lips, and leaned back, closing her eyes.

I used the moment to change my mental image of Amanda to that of a younger woman. Still a harpy but under senior-discount age.

"I know what you mean, but nobody said life is supposed to be fair." Embarrassed, I clamped my mouth shut over my second cliché in two minutes.

Rose opened her eyes and spoke in a quieter tone. "I'm afraid it's no secret that Harry and I hadn't been perceived as the perfect couple for some time. We didn't go many places together because his business always interfered, and you know how rumors start when a man hires a woman to an important position."

"Is it true he made Amanda his executive assistant?"

"More than that. He retained the title of president of the firm, but I worried he'd begin to call himself chairman of the board and make her the president."

"That's a radical move. Is she that good?"

The bitterness returned. "At her job or as his mistress?"

"Whatever."

She relaxed slightly, but a frown creased her forehead. "It's not pleasant to be the object of pity among one's friends."

"But you loved Harry. After so many years together, perhaps if you ignored it, his infatuation with her would have ended. That's probably all it amounted to."

"I don't think I loved him anymore."

Another startling revelation. Debra was wrong. Brad was right. "Well then, a divorce could take care of everything. You'd probably have received a good settlement."

"And let him have a trophy wife?" She apparently regretted the remark and softened her tone. "Besides, getting alimony in California isn't easy. Plus, if you remarry, it disappears."

At first, the years since I'd seen Rose had dropped away, but as she spoke, I began to feel that both of us had changed dramatically in the interim. Another thought nagged me. Could Rose be surveying the jungle herself? Did she have husband number two waiting in the wings already?

She disabused me of that notion. "Men! They're all alike. Youth and beauty are all they want in a woman." She twisted the handkerchief rope some more, a lot like strangling someone of youth and beauty. Yet, could the harpy be beautiful or only in Rose's estimation?

She dropped the hanky-rope in her lap. "Of course, assets are important. After all, I have no skills or training to earn money myself. Women in my position just don't. Still, I also enjoyed a great deal of prestige in being Mrs. Harold Hammond. In spite of the rumors, I went to all the best social events, even when he couldn't attend. I had a certain stature."

She straightened up even more, as if slouching ranked a step below streetwalking. Her frown lines multiplied like ripples in a stream. "After a divorce, my friends would have deserted me."

"Surely, if they were true friends…" I stopped, thinking how she and I had drifted apart, and that came about due to my husband's death, not hers.

"You don't understand. People can be cruel. I've seen it. My friend Mona went through a divorce, and everyone dropped her, afraid the stigma would rub off on them, afraid to allow a single woman around their husbands."

I knew the feeling. In my case, I'd been widowed before my divorce, so I supposed I'd already adjusted to watching old friends disappear and being forced to make new ones. Luckily, I'd always adapted easily to new situations.

Rose waved a hand. "Mona did one thing right, though. She made sure her alimony increased annually for inflation."

I felt my mouth drop open. Which of the ninety thousand lawyers in California thought that one up?

"However, she only gets three hundred thousand a year, and it's not the same as being in control of a million or two. Or being known as the wife of the head of a multinational corporation."

I shook my head in despair at that sad story. Poor Mona. Only three hundred thousand. And I thought I managed very well on what she'd no doubt consider Starbuck's coffee money. I moved in the wrong circles.

Depression followed. Not at the thought I didn't have that kind of income but at the picture Rose had painted for me. I didn't want Brad to be right, but her attitude certainly sounded like a motive for murder. She'd admitted she'd gone to the ladies' room. Maybe she went into the linen room first, picked up the statue, and smashed Harry's head with it. Presto! No more divorce or alimony problems for her.

As quickly as the notion came, I squelched it. Rose was no stranger, in spite of the years that had passed since we'd been close friends. The real Rose Hammond, the person I knew, wouldn't harm a killer bee.

"Rose, I know you didn't murder Harry."

"The police think so. Their attitude made it perfectly clear, even if they didn't have a reason to put me in jail."

I changed the subject again. "Exactly what will happen now that Harry's gone? Not your personal finances. I mean the business. Will you inherit it?"

"The company is privately owned. I'll inherit more shares, but I might have no say in the running of it." She stiffened again and clipped her words. "Probably Amanda will be in charge. Perhaps you should question her. In my opinion, she's the one with a motive for murder."

I tried for a reassuring smile. "I'm certain the police agree."

"And Brad? Will he investigate Amanda too?"

"Oh, yes. Very thoroughly. He's probably doing that right now." I got up to leave. "I'm so sorry about all this, Rose. I hope my questions didn't make things worse for you."

"No, of course not. I wanted to talk to you. Please come and see me often. To keep me informed. I want to know everything Brad finds out." We hugged again.

Driving away, I imagined my friendship with Rose rekindled and planned to see her often in the future. That was, unless Rose killed Harry and ended up living in a six-by-eight roomette with iron instead of damask at the window.

CHAPTER FOUR

I stopped for a sandwich-to-go in the coffee shop on the first floor of our building and ate my lunch at the desk in the secretary's office. Furnished similarly to Brad's, it held a swivel chair with a long credenza behind it and two straight chairs against the wall opposite. A philodendron sat on top of a filing cabinet, and prints of the Golden Gate Bridge and Coit Tower hung on the bare white walls. I bought the latter from a street artist in the Embarcadero.

After lunch, I typed up my conversation with Rose into the computer, printed it out, and added it to the pages I'd already put in the Hammond file.

In spite of the circumstances, seeing Rose again made me feel younger for a little while. I remembered the long talks we had over coffee at a kitchen table, carpooling to club meetings, shopping trips to the mall. Yet, when I thought of the dinners and other times our husbands had been with us, my spirits drooped. Perhaps, now that we were both widows, we could start our friendship over again. I just hoped she hadn't killed Harry.

At one-thirty, Brad returned. I jumped up from my chair and followed him into his office. "I saw Rose Hammond. You'll find my notes in the folder."

He plopped himself in his chair, faced his desk, and reached for the file. "Is she guilty? Should I give up the case?"

"Of course she's not guilty." My old loyalty returned, but I wondered what he'd make of her admission of marital problems. By this time, Brad had thumbed through several pages of my printed contribution.

"You not only interviewed Rose, but you typed up the whole conversation?" He dropped the folder on the desk and stood, as if what I'd done required some flattering comment. "This is remarkable."

I took on a modest look. "I know you didn't ask me to do that, but it seemed like the right thing. If you didn't need that information at the moment, you might later."

"You don't understand." He came close to where I stood and looked earnestly into my eyes. "You see, I just came from Warren's office, and we talked about you doing this very thing."

"You and Warren talked about me?" I knew he referred to his mentor, the PI he'd worked with for six months.

"What did you tell him?"

"I just said you were helping out as my secretary, and he asked questions about you."

"What kind of questions?"

"Like were you reliable, discreet, trustworthy."

"Did you tell him I'm your sister?"

"Of course. Right away he assumed you were loyal…"

"That's encouraging."

"He repeated a few things I'd heard him say before about women investigators, that they were often better than men at getting information from reluctant witnesses. They were often easier to talk to and definitely less confrontational."

"Goody. Let's hear it for women."

"Did I say immodest?"

I laughed. "Sorry." I turned aside. "Did he suggest I might type up my notes from the visit with Rose?"

"Not in so many words. He just asked if you could be relied on to share anything you learned so you could help with a case of mine."

"And I just did." I sat in the chair in front of the desk until Brad approached and resumed his place. While he went back to turning pages, I asked a question. "Who did you talk to while I was gone?"

He pulled out his pocket recorder and handed it to me. "Here you go."

"How about a summary? Now that I'm helping you, I need to be up-to-date."

"Since you're typing up my notes, you'll find out anyway." He grinned, then sighed loudly, as if doing this under duress. My brother, the actor.

"First I visited my buddy on the police force, Tom Ortega. You remember him, don't you?"

I did. He and Brad had become friends in high school, although Tom was a year older. Now, both were detectives, but Tom had remained on the police force.

Brad leaned back in his chair. "He couldn't give me much, but he did say they're sure the murderer used one of the awards statues as the murder weapon. It's heavy, about a foot tall, with a square pedestal. He said they found no fingerprints."

"No fingerprints? The murderer wore gloves?"

"Maybe. It's more likely he wiped his prints off afterward or used a napkin to pick up the statue. The room where Hammond died is filled with tablecloths and napkins. I went over there, leaned over the yellow police tape blocking the door, and managed to get a look inside."

"Did the police find a wrinkled napkin?"

"No, but it's possible the killer took it away with him. At first, they didn't even find the statue he used. He replaced it in the box with the others."

I visualized someone entering, maybe talking briefly. Then Harry turned away for a moment, and the murderer picked up one of the heavy metal statues and struck Harry with it. He wiped off his fingerprints, put the statue back in the box, pocketed the napkin, and left. Pretty cold-blooded man. Or woman.

"On closer inspection, they found one of the statues had bits of hair and skin on the pedestal."

I winced at the thought of searching for tissue from someone's head, but then that's why I wasn't a doctor or nurse. I didn't like to see a needle go into my arm, or anyone else's for that matter. I even turned away when they did it to some actor in a film.

However, I didn't mention that to Brad. I needed to look and act like a fearless woman of the 21st century. "I can understand the murderer leaving the statue behind. After all, it couldn't be stuffed in a pocket. Still, what about the napkin? Can they get prints from cloth?"

"I don't know. If he left any of his own blood or hairs on it, they might be able to get a DNA match, but it's unlikely he did."

"Then why take it?"

"Maybe he doesn't know if they can get fingerprints from cloth. Safer just to keep it until he can drop it in the bay."

That made sense to me. "So, with no fingerprints, what do they do now? Who do the police suspect, besides Mrs. Hammond?"

"Tom couldn't tell me that. They questioned everyone who attended the banquet Saturday night, and if they've narrowed it down to a few, they aren't telling."

He swiveled his chair around absentmindedly. "Then I went to see Carl Novotny at Hammond headquarters."

Aha, one of the suspects. "What do you think? Did he really just find the body, or could he have killed Harry?"

Brad put his feet on his desk. "Everyone's a suspect, like Tom said, but Novotny seems like a straightforward guy. I asked him if he saw anyone enter or leave the linen room that night, but he says so many people were milling around the reception area, that anyone could have gone in there and wouldn't be noticed. However…"

"Yes?"

"He did see Amanda go in that direction."

"We already know that. She brought the box with statues that Harry planned to give out during the awards ceremony." I remembered something else. "Rose says a young man carried the box for her. You'll need to find him and learn if he left immediately or stayed there."

Brad nodded, and I leaned forward, thinking out loud. "That means that anyone who went into the linen room before Amanda couldn't have killed Harry, because the statues weren't there yet. On the other hand, if left alone with Harry for a while, Amanda could have done it."

"True, but as you said about Debra asking me to find the murderer, it seems a little obvious for someone to wait until she brings the statues then use one to kill him." He paused. "Assuming she had a motive."

I settled back in my chair again. "I see what you mean. Using an object everyone knows you handled isn't very smart. What about the question of passion? In the heat of the moment, during an argument, people sometimes lose control and forget what's in their own best interests."

"Maybe, but we'd need to know if they argued and why."

"Did you interview her today?"

"Her secretary said she wasn't in, but I left a card and a message for her to call me."

His answer disappointed me. I wanted to meet the harpy, that is, Amanda Dillon. I liked the idea Harry hired a woman as his administrative assistant, although I secretly thought that often became a euphemism for secretary. However, from what Rose told me, it didn't apply in her case.

"Well, did Novotny see anyone go in the linen room after Amanda delivered the statues?"

"No. Being in that hallway, the doorway to it couldn't be seen from the dining room."

"Did he see anyone go in that direction? Like to the men's room?" Rose had admitted going to the ladies' room, and I didn't want Brad to think that fact incriminated her, as well as to give the other sex their shot at being under suspicion.

"He says he didn't notice." Brad pulled his feet off his desk and swiveled his chair 180 degrees to glance out the window. I was pretty sure, though, that he could see only similar white-concrete-and-blue-glass office buildings and a piece of the bridge over the bay.

He turned back toward me. "After I left Novotny and stood waiting for the elevator, I saw him come into the hall, and a very pretty girl came barreling up to him."

The plot thickened. I leaned forward again. "So what happened?"

"They argued."

"Did you hear what they said?"

"No, I couldn't make it out. He looked angry, but she did all the talking."

"Perhaps accusing him of something, like murder?"

"I don't know. The elevator doors opened and people waited for me to get on, so I did."

I frowned. "You should have pretended to be waiting to go up instead of down and stayed there and watched."

"Oh yeah? And let people spot me eavesdropping? Your one interview hasn't made you a detective yet, you know."

Before I could form a rebuttal, the outer door opened, and I jumped up to greet what I hoped might be a new client.

As I closed Brad's door behind me, I saw a woman standing in the reception area. I'm not given to hasty judgments about people, but this time my brain registered instant dislike. Part of it stemmed from her small, pursed mouth, which glistened with high-priced lip gloss. She stared at me as if I were wearing last-decade's style and gave my office furniture an isn't-this-tacky scowl. I also felt plain, old-fashioned jealousy.

She was absurdly beautiful. Her pitch black hair fell straight at the sides with blunt cut bangs. She had creamy skin, artfully mascaraed eyes, and a Pilates-perfect figure encased in the kind of outfit I might be able to buy only if my rich aunt Ruth kept me in her will.

"I'm Mrs. Grant, Mr. Featherstone's secretary," I told her. "May I help you?"

"I'd like to speak to Mr. Featherstone as soon as possible. My secretary said he came to my office today. I'm Amanda Dillon."

CHAPTER FIVE

I backed toward the connecting door again, somewhat in shock, wondering how Ms. Dillon, with her spider-sized eyelashes, designer clothes and all, had come to be Harry's executive assistant at the age of, well, anyway, mega-years under the fifty-plus I'd been imagining.

I nearly crashed into Brad, who had already opened his door a crack and peered out. Having caught a glimpse of his visitor, he grinned like a child on Christmas morning. I could imagine his thoughts: the case now involved a beautiful woman. Like Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon, he couldn't have enjoyed it more if a young Mary Astor had walked in.

He came through the door, and after I introduced them, he waved Ms. Dillon into the inner office and asked if she would like some coffee. Being the coffee-procurer, I made a silent wish she'd say "no," but she declared she'd like some, so I hauled the machine out of the cabinet behind my desk and prayed it would work right this time. Next, I had to leave the office to go across the hall to the ladies' room for water. When I returned, Brad had closed the door to his inner sanctum, and I found myself excluded from learning, at least temporarily, what Brad would find out. Even if I wanted to eavesdrop, I wouldn't have been able to, because the coffeemaker sounded like a washing machine with a severe overload.

The coffee ready at last, I knocked softly once, then carried in the tray with two matching mugs, packets of sugar, artificial sweetener, and some non-dairy creamer, and set it on Brad's desk. Ms. Dillon sat relaxed, well back in her chair, legs crossed, skirt hiked up to reveal a long stretch of dark gray nylon. Since Brad couldn't see it, her display of thigh was wasted, but he seemed to be enjoying what he could see. I closed the door again when I went out.

While I waited at my own desk, sharpening six pencils and making a three-foot chain out of paper clips, I returned to the theme of Amanda Dillon being named Harry's executive assistant. I still considered it secretary but with more syllables. Like the way a stewardess became a flight attendant, janitors became building custodians, and personnel became human resources. Although in the latter case, I felt the word human was a lot less human than personnel, which it used to be. The word resource also conjured up an eerie feeling that, should I work for such a firm and fail, I'd be fed into a giant grinding machine and end up in the company cafeteria as Burger of the Month.

I pushed that vision from my mind and instead debated whether Amanda could be our killer. My experience had always been that beautiful women didn't have to perform drastic deeds like murder to get what they wanted. Even in school, I noticed the prettiest girls not only became cheerleaders and made all the boys beg for dates but got elected to high offices in clubs and student government, regardless of any talent for same. We ordinary-looking folk had to be darn good to achieve anything like that. In this case, Amanda already had it all: a very prestigious position and the possibility, perhaps, of marrying the boss besides. Why kill him?

Finally, the door to the inner office opened, and Brad and Amanda emerged. I turned toward them and watched while they said their good-byes. I thought Brad held her hand—studded with perfect, obviously fake, red fingernails—long enough to grow mold.

She left. He went back into his office and returned carrying a recorder.

"I have to go out again."

"Why?" Obviously, I was playing older sister instead of part-time associate.

"To look for Hammond's briefcase. You'll find all the details in here." He handed me the recorder.

"So she's the administrative assistant. She looks awfully young for such a responsible job."

"Gorgeous too. That ought to make you happy, Olivia. Didn't you always tell me women can be both beautiful and smart."

Brad usually called me Livvie but sometimes used Olivia when he started college, not just since I began working with him. Besides, hadn't he just quoted one of the many gems of wisdom I'd provided him over the years?

"Yes." I used the punch line from an old shaggy dog story. "But not that beautiful. What else?"

He pointed to the recorder. "Here's one thing you'll hear on that: she's the young woman who cornered Novotny in the hallway of their office."

"You mean the one who argued with him?"

"The same."

"What did they quarrel about?"

"She wouldn't say, but I'll tell you what she did say. She hinted that either Rose or Debra Hammond might be guilty."

"Oh, come on, we've already gone over that."

"She says Debra was having an affair with a man her father disapproved of. If Daddy hated the guy and threatened to cut her out of his will or something, that's a motive for murder."

I shook my head. "I find it hard to imagine a daughter killing her father, even over money. If she married the man, she probably wouldn't need Daddy's money. And after the grandchildren arrived, he'd come around. That's the way it usually works."

"What makes you so sure?"

"My advanced age, wisdom, experience—all that good stuff."

"Maybe, but it wouldn't hurt to nose around a little, talk to Debra again. Ask her about Hammond's missing briefcase. You want to detect, start detecting. You'll get to use your advanced age, wisdom, and experience—all that good stuff."

He grinned and with an exaggerated wink went out.

I put his tape into the player and flipped the switch, anxious to learn more about this harpy who no doubt wore Prada. In another moment, I had accessed the word processor, opened the file, and began transcribing their conversation.

Brad: "Thanks for coming in. I appreciate you giving me this chance to ask you some questions about Harry Hammond."

Amanda: "I didn't come for that. I answered all the questions I intend to when I talked to the police."

Brad: "Then why did you come?"

Amanda: "I want you to find a briefcase."

Brad: After a pause. "Your briefcase?"

Amanda: "No. Hammond's."

Brad: "Is there something valuable in it?"

Amanda: "Only his folders and notes from his trip to Los Angeles, things I'll have to work on. His death will have a serious effect on the business, of course, but there's no need to let everything get chaotic."

What a cool customer. I wished I'd been a fly on the wall when she and Novotny had that argument. She seemed too much in control to become angry.

Brad: "When did you see the briefcase last?"

Amanda: "I know he took it with him when he went to Los Angeles on Wednesday. When he returned on Saturday, he went straight to the hotel from the airport. I assume he had it with him then."

Brad: "Could he have left it in his car?"

Amanda: "I checked that out already. He didn't leave it there."

Brad: "You're very efficient, aren't you?"

Amanda: "I get paid to be."

I felt my lips compress. I found more reasons to hate this woman by the minute.

Brad: "The police probably impounded everything in the room where the murder took place. Have you checked with them?"

Amanda: "They claim they found no briefcase."

Brad: "Where else might he have left it?"

I detected a touch of impatience in Amanda's tone when she replied.

Amanda: "I don't know. That's why I've come to you. Aren't detectives supposed to find things?"

Brad: "Yeah, but this is going to be like finding a raisin in a coal mine." Another pause. "What about Carl Novotny? He found the body. Could he have picked up the briefcase?"

Amanda: "That's possible, of course, but then why didn't he give it to me or at least return it to the office?"

Brad: "That's something we'll have to ask him, isn't it? By the way, what were you and Mr. Novotny quarreling about in the office building this morning?"

Amanda remained silent for a long time before answering. "Nothing important, a difference of opinion, that's all." Another pause. "Hammond might have left the briefcase in the reception area or even the dining room, but the hotel people claim they don't have it. Things don't just vanish into thin air. Someone took it."

Brad: "You think the murderer might have lifted it?"

Amanda: "Just find it for me."

Brad: "Right. What did it look like?"

Amanda: "It's a dark brown leather attaché case." Pause. "Like yours."

Brad usually left his on the floor next to the desk, and she probably pointed to it. His, too, was dark brown leather. I'd bought it at Dave's Luggage Shop in Bay Meadows Mall and given it to him as a present at Christmas the year before.

Amanda: "Like yours, it also has a combination lock instead of a key. So I can get into it when I need to add papers."

Brad: "Did anyone else know the combination?"

Amanda: "I don't think so, but I can't be positive. Perhaps Mrs. Hammond knows it."

I heard a sound like Brad tapping his pencil on the desk.

Brad: "Could Mrs. Hammond have taken the briefcase? Have you asked her about it?"

Amanda: "She says she didn't, but it's possible she's lying."

Brad: "If the briefcase contains important business papers, why would Mrs. Hammond keep them from you?"

Amanda: "Perhaps because she doesn't want to reveal how she came to have it."

Brad: "You mean because she went into the linen room that night?"

The tone of Amanda's voice seemed to change, from authoritative to doubtful.

Amanda: "Of course I can't be sure, but I think she might have, as well as their daughter Debra."

Brad: "Together?"

Amanda: "No, separately."

Brad: "You sound as if you think one of them killed him."

Amanda: "That's possible too. The Hammonds' marriage has been shaky for a long time. She might have decided she'd rather kill him than get a divorce."

Brad: "Why would their marriage have been shaky?" Pause. "Another woman? A beautiful colleague perhaps?"

My hands jumped off the keyboard as if it were a snake, expecting Amanda to assume he meant her and resent it. However, he had probably flashed her one of his devastating smiles, because she answered in a calm tone of voice.

Amanda: "If you're implying we were having an affair, forget it. He was old enough to be my father."

Brad: "That doesn't seem to stop some women in your position."

Amanda: "That's not my style. I prefer to get ahead in the business world on my talent, not by sleeping with the boss."

Brad: "Did anyone else occupy Mr. Hammond's bed?"

Amanda: "If so, I don't know about it, and believe me, I knew a lot about his personal life. If he had a mistress, I think I'd have known the details."

Brad: "And the daughter, Debra? What motive could she have?"

Amanda sounded brisk again. "You're going far afield for someone who's only looking for a briefcase, but I'll answer that anyway. I've heard rumors that Debra is having an affair with a man her father disapproves of. I suppose that could be a motive for murder."

The conversation I was listening to had been getting really interesting, and I pounded the keyboard as fast as I could go, barely pausing for the tape. However, after that rebuke, a long silence followed. Then Brad announced he couldn't take her as a client inasmuch as he'd been hired by Rose Hammond. "If I happen to come across the briefcase, however, I'll see that it's returned to you." He apparently rose from the chair, and the tape ended.

"Darn," I said out loud, using one of the many expletives at my command. I wanted to hear more. For the first time, working for Brad didn't inspire attacks of narcolepsy.

By the time I'd finished transcribing the conversation, I had lots to think about. In spite of Rose's strong feelings about Amanda, it seemed possible nothing went on between her and Harry after all. Of course, naturally Amanda would say that, wouldn't she? She had thrown suspicion on Debra too, and I could see why Brad wanted me to talk to the daughter again. Yes, indeed, that investigation looked like almost as much fun as teaching beginning bridge players that the term "grand slam" came from bridge, not baseball.

* * *

At five o'clock Brad returned and looked surprised to see me sitting at the desk. "I thought you were going to talk to Debra Hammond again."

"I called over there, but either no one's home, or they're not answering the phone."

"Well, it's quitting time. Don't you have a date or something?"

"No, and if I did, I wouldn't tell you. Did you find the briefcase?" To tell the truth, I felt a little foolish for asking. I didn't see him bring one in.

He ignored my question. "You should date more, Olivia. You're still a sexy-looking woman and could easily marry again."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"Not a bit. Just thinking of your happiness."

He went on into his office where he sank into his chair, swiveled it around, and put his feet on his desk. Naturally, I followed him.

"Let's not talk about my love life. I want to know what you learned today."

"Okay. I checked out the hotel again: the linen room, the reception area, the dining room, asked questions at the front desk. Also got the names of the employees on duty that night and spoke to most of them."

"And?"

"I couldn't find the briefcase anywhere. One waiter thinks he saw Hammond holding something like it that night, but he's not sure."

"That sounds pretty conclusive to me. Hammond carried it in, and someone else carried it out."

"Everyone else seems to deny having it."

"You haven't talked to everyone yet." I sat down. "I'll ask Debra and Rose, but there's still that vice president, John Ziegler, and his wife."

Brad leaned back in his chair and chewed absentmindedly on his thumbnail, a habit of his I'd first noticed after I returned from England a few months ago.

"And maybe Amanda is lying. She could be the murderer." Earlier I had dismissed that idea, but it pleased me because I thought Brad had taken too much of a liking to her too soon, arousing my protective instincts. She'd given me the impression of being a cold, calculating woman, not my idea of the perfect sister-in-law. Besides, extra mother that I was, I wouldn't feel I'd completed my job until both Brad and Samantha were married, owned a home with a sizeable mortgage, and had several children I could spoil rotten.

He glanced up. "Why do you think Amanda is lying? By the way, I talked to the young man who carried the statues for her. He says he left the room immediately."

I smirked. "See? Plenty of time for her to have killed Harry."

"We still need a motive."

"Maybe there's something incriminating in the briefcase, and she wants you to find it before the police do."

"The police don't seem to care about it."

"How do you know? Did Tom Ortega say so?"

He ignored my questions. "So far, I count her out. I think her interest in the briefcase is exactly what she said it is—business papers she has to handle."

I sighed. Brad was probably right, and I was just being overly suspicious. He left the office, but I remained for another few minutes, thinking of nasty ways of disposing of Amanda, all, unfortunately, barred by the Geneva Convention.

CHAPTER SIX

When I entered Brad's office on Tuesday morning, I found a man pacing the floor. In his early forties, I assumed, tall and slender. His light brown hair was beginning to recede in a Tom Hanks way. Attractive, too.

"Good morning. I'm here to see Mr. Featherstone."

"He's not in?" I hustled over to the connecting door, opened it, and looked in Brad's office. No Brad. "How did you—"

"The door wasn't locked." He fingered his tie and collar and looked a little uncomfortable, as if he'd been caught using the executive washroom.

So the cleaning crew had failed to lock the outer door again the night before. I only hoped I wouldn't walk in some morning and find a serial killer waiting for me.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but we spoke yesterday, and he gave me his card."

"Have you been here long?"

"About five minutes." He sat down and folded his arms across his chest, as if getting prepared to wait even longer.

"May I get you some coffee while you're waiting, Mr.—" He didn't fill in his name because I no sooner got the words out when the outer door opened, and Brad breezed in.

"Mr. Novotny, come on in. I see you've met Mrs. Grant."

So this was Carl Novotny, the man who'd found Harry's body. Also, I remembered from Brad's tape, the man who'd had a heated argument with Amanda in the hallway of their building. After acknowledging our introduction by shaking my hand, he followed Brad into his office.

I sat behind the desk in the receptionist office and turned on the computer. This time Brad hadn't closed his door, and I heard bits of their conversation.

I debated getting up and closing the connecting door myself—after all, I'd learn everything when I transcribed the tape Brad always made—but excessive curiosity was a deep-seated sin of mine.

I heard Novotny say, "Yesterday, when you came to my office, you asked me a question about problems within our company."

Brad didn't answer immediately. "I asked who stands to gain, financially or otherwise, from Hammond's murder."

"I didn't want to answer that just then. People could be listening and reporting things. You know what I mean? I started to phone you this morning, then decided just to come over and tell you what I think in person."

Brad said, "Good," and then seemed to be waiting to hear what secrets Novotny might reveal. Personally, I thought the man sounded a little paranoid. Did he think someone had bugged his own office? I'd married right out of college, so I worked only briefly in an office myself, but I'd heard a few unpleasant stories about sexual harassment and backstabbing, to say nothing of downsizing and corporate takeovers. What other shenanigans went on in Harry's company besides the rumors about him and Amanda?

"I'm only the marketing director," Novotny said, "so I don't have access to any but routine financial records, but something may be a little shady."

"How shady?"

"Like I said, I'm not sure. Some of us get stock options in the company as part of our annual compensation, but lately John Ziegler…"

Brad interrupted. "That's the vice president?"

"Yes. He's been trying to buy up options owned by the rest of us."

Aha, a takeover attempt.

"You think he's trying to get control of the company? Did Hammond suspect?"

"No, I don't think so. Hammond owned most of the shares, of course, but with him gone, Ziegler might try to buy out the widow."

"As vice president, won't he pretty much run the company anyway?"

"I doubt it."

"Then who will?"

"Amanda Dillon."

I didn't hear anyone speak for a long moment after that and assumed the lull meant Brad was pondering that new information. Personally, I thought the mention of Amanda—her face should suddenly collapse like Dorian Gray—popped up way too often.

Novotny continued. "Ziegler operated under Amanda's orders during Hammond's absences, and I think she has an employment contract that gives her a lot of power."

"How about you? Where do you stand in the company hierarchy?"

"Behind Ziegler at the moment, but Hammond planned some changes. If he took the title of CEO and made Amanda president, I could have moved up ahead of Ziegler."

"Why is that?"

"Because Hammond knew that Ziegler despised Amanda, that he didn't like working for a woman."

"A young and pretty woman, at that."

"Right. He's older. He hasn't adjusted to the way things are now. You have to give Hammond credit. He recognized potential in people and promoted them—men or women."

"I'm impressed." Still, Brad's tone revealed a smidgen of sarcasm.

"So you didn't mind working with Amanda, got along with her just fine." He paused. "You may not have been aware of it, but I happened to be standing in the hallway yesterday when you and she had an argument. I didn't hear the conversation, but it looked serious to me."

Novotny hesitated about a nanosecond. "We had a difference of opinion about something, that's all. Nothing important."

"Getting along with her is admirable, but I've been hired to find some answers, and your wanting to move up might seem to some people like a motive for murder."

Novotny's voice didn't reveal any concern. "The police may suspect me, like everybody else, but if I wanted to kill him, I'd have waited until after he promoted me, wouldn't I? Why do it before?"

I thought that over. Novotny's reasoning made sense. If I were he and wanted to take over the company, I wouldn't kill Harry with a vice president and Amanda Dillon still in line ahead of me.

"I'm trying to help," Novotny said next. "Ziegler is the financial officer, and I think he's been hatching this for a long time. Maybe Hammond found out, so Ziegler killed him. Or else he hired somebody else to do it." He paused. "You want to absolve Mrs. Hammond, so I'm offering it for what it's worth."

"Okay." Brad's tone suggested a shrug. "Thanks. I'll look into it. Anything else I ought to know?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Are you aware that Hammond's daughter was having an affair?"

I groaned. Not another person trying to throw suspicion on Debra Hammond. I stopped listening momentarily, disturbed about this change of direction. First, he implicated Ziegler, then Debra. His stories could have been just that, stories, an attempt to divert suspicion from the real murderer, himself. As Brad had hinted the day before, he might have killed Hammond that night and only pretended he found him already dead.

"James Powell is a real sleazebag," I heard Novotny say. "And, since he manages the Bay Meadows store, he attended the banquet Saturday night. So he had the opportunity to kill Hammond."

Powell? Who was Powell? I hadn't heard that name before. I got up from my chair and walked across the little office, hoping to hear better from the other side of the open door.

"Interesting," Brad said. "Do you have any proof of his affair with Debra Hammond?"

"No, but she's been seen in their store."

Brad made a scoffing sound. "Since when is a woman going into a jewelry store suspicious?"

"When her father owns a different jewelry store in the same mall."

"So you think that the only possible reason she could have for going there would be to see Powell."

"Of course."

"She wouldn't just want to discuss business with another jewelry store owner?"

"Powell isn't the owner, though he acts like he is. Anyway, I don't think Debra had anything to do with her father's business, nothing to discuss with anybody there. I think she works for a financial company."

"Assuming for a moment you're right and Debra Hammond is seeing James Powell, why would one of them need to kill her father?"

"Maybe to keep him from disinheriting her."

"Forgive me for doubting you, Mr. Novotny, but not many daughters kill their fathers, and if they do, it's not usually over money. If she married the guy, she might not need her father's money."

I clamped my hand over my mouth to keep from protesting out loud. Brad had repeated my very words. I supposed next he'd add that after some grandchildren arrived, Harry would have come to accept Powell as his son-in-law.

But he didn't say it.

Next, I heard Novotny again. "Everyone knew that Hammond hated that whole operation. You see, a long time ago Hammond and Kevin McDonald had been partners in the jewelry business."

Kevin McDonald? Good grief, the list of people I'd never heard of was growing like Pinocchio's nose.

"When they split, McDonald went to L.A. and developed his own line of jewelry stores, but then he opened one in the same mall up here."

"How did Hammond react to that?" Brad asked.

"Made his blood boil. And then rumors started that his daughter, Debra, had a thing going with the manager, Powell."

"Did Hammond ever threaten Powell or say anything about what he'd do if his daughter became involved with him?"

"Not to me personally," Novotny admitted. "He probably said something to Amanda. She knew everything."

A short silence followed, and I paced the room for a moment. When I reached the other end of the small cubicle, I suddenly noticed a briefcase made of dark brown leather sitting on the floor between the two chairs. I picked it up and read the initials stamped in gold on the top: HDH. Harry's missing briefcase. Brad had found it already. I walked behind my desk and put it inside the credenza for safekeeping, then turned my attention back to the conversation in the next room.

Brad said, "Thanks for the tip. I think the idea is out in left field, but I'll look into it. Anything else?"

I didn't hear his reply, but soon Novotny came through the open doorway. He came over to me, smiling, and reached across my desk with his free hand to shake mine. "Thanks very much."

Since I'd barely said two sentences to the man, I wondered why he thanked me, but I smiled back, and he left.

Brad came out of his office a few moments later, grinning, and dropped a tape on the desk. "Here, in case you missed anything."

"I didn't miss him accusing Debra of killing her father. First, Amanda hints at it, now Novotny. And I don't believe it."

"You have to admit it seems everyone else does. You may have to revise your opinion." He headed for the connecting door, then turned back toward me again. "By the way, did you ask Rose if she has Harry's briefcase?"

My mind did a double take. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, 'did you ask her about the briefcase?'"

"That's what I thought you said, but I don't understand why you said it. You already found the briefcase."

"No, I didn't."

"Then what's this?" I slid open the door of the credenza, pulled it out, and set it on top of the desk, handle up.

Brad looked almost as surprised as he did at twelve when he found out I already knew he'd been riding cable cars in San Francisco instead of attending school. "Where did you find it?"

"Right over there." I pointed toward the visitors' chairs against the opposite wall.

After a quick glance at the chairs, he fingered the initials on the top of the case. "How did it get there?"

"I assumed you put it there. I certainly didn't."

"I couldn't. I spent another hour looking for it this morning and came up empty."

We looked at each other again, and then our next word came out simultaneously: "Novotny."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Brad and I continued to look at each other for a few minutes, but I didn't really see him. In my mind's eye, I saw Carl Novotny walking out of my office with a briefcase in his left hand.

"I thought he took his." I skirted around Brad to peer through the open door into his office. "Whoops! No, he didn't. He took yours."

Brad came up behind me and stared at the place on the floor next to his desk where he always left his. "Son of a gun. Amanda said they looked alike."

I stated the obvious. "He must have forgotten he left his out here and took yours by mistake. Too bad."

"Whaddayamean, bad? That's good news. Because it isn't his. It's Hammond's. Now I can return it to Amanda. She asked me to find it, and it walked right into my office."

I returned to the desk and glanced again at Hammond's initials on the briefcase. "I hope your success as an investigator doesn't always hinge on such fortuitous circumstances."

He sounded a little defensive. "I searched long and hard for this thing. I deserve a bit of luck."

"Yet, you can't return it to Amanda. You have to give it back to Novotny."

Brad frowned. "Actually, I may have to turn it over to the police."

"And they'll keep it forever and hamper business, just what Amanda didn't want."

"I'll call Amanda and tell her that we have it. However, if the cops think it's evidence, I can't withhold it."

"We don't know that it is evidence. It may never have been at the crime scene at all. Maybe Novotny found it somewhere else. Besides, Amanda said it contained only business papers."

"Nevertheless, I have to follow the rules."

"It seems a little nitpicky to me. Where did you learn that?"

"Those three years on the police force." He didn't look up for a minute, then added. "You expected it, didn't you? Isn't that why you, Samantha, and I were sent to Sunday School?"

I'd never been able to determine when Brad was serious and when he was pulling my leg, and our parents had been strict about our attending church all through our teens. Church and Sunday school attendance had not ranked high with their fellow baby boomers, but our mother believed in it and continued the tradition raising Brad, Samantha, and me. Since then, I often wondered if the proliferation of crime among younger and younger children had anything to do with their lack of moral education on weekends. As for Brad, I remembered his attendance stopped after he turned sixteen, but at least the lessons had apparently not gone in one ear and out the other without ever touching brain matter.

He picked up the case and strode into his office, placing it on top of his desk. He grabbed the phone with his free hand before he sat down. He soon had Amanda on the line, and then he opened the briefcase, which, as it turned out, hadn't been locked.

I jumped up from my chair and hurried after him, leaning across his desk to look at the contents. While he read off the names on the file folders inside, I removed a video cartridge. Neither it nor the slipcase bore any kind of label, so it didn't appear to be a rented movie. That piqued my curiosity.

I turned it over in my hands. It was a VHS tape. Very old school. Who had used it and what for?

Brad made notes on one of his yellow pads, and I heard his half of their conversation.

"Maybe not," he said into the phone. "Depends on whether they think it's important. I'll call my friend Tom Ortega and ask him." I heard only a lot of silence on Brad's end, and then Amanda apparently agreed he could talk to Tom, and he hung up.

"What about the videotape?" I asked. "Did Amanda say what that's all about?"

"She says it's just pictures of fancy jewelry. You know, necklaces, bracelets, things like that."

"But who uses VHS? Does Amanda know it's an old tape?"

"Yes."

He picked up the phone again, and I heard him ask for Tom, so I put the recorder on the desk and went back to the outer office again.

After another five minutes, Brad came out and told me to call Novotny and arrange to swap briefcases with him. "Find out how he came to have it, and tell him to give it back to Amanda right away."

"Tom doesn't think the police need to see it? Is he sure about that?"

"I described everything in it, and he said they already had all the information about who Hammond visited in Los Angeles."

"And the videotape?"

"Tom said that unless it showed the murderer committing the crime—which is hardly likely with no camera in that hotel linen room—he'd just believe Amanda's statement that it contained pictures of jewelry."

That surprised me, but who was I to question the workings of the law?

Brad had his hand on the knob of the outer door when I stopped him. "I have to teach a bridge class this afternoon, so I'll be out for two or three hours."

He turned back. "I'll be having lunch out myself."

"Who's your lunch date with?"

"If you must know, it's with Ms. Dillon."

"Oh? What for?"

"I need to know everything about Hammond's business affairs in Los Angeles. I'm planning to fly down tomorrow to interview his contacts."

I decided to challenge his motives. "You can't con me, Bradley Featherstone. You just want to see the gorgeous Amanda Dillon again. And the fact she's smart and has a prestigious job doesn't hurt."

His mouth turned up, and although the light from the window was behind him, his face got a little pink. "I admit I like working for her. Who wouldn't? And I'd like to prove I'm a good investigator."

He lingered in the room for another moment, biting his thumbnail, then took a look at his wristwatch, saluted in my direction, and headed out the door.

As soon as he'd gone, I called Novotny at his office, but he wasn't in, so I left a message. Then I called his home and left a message on his voicemail there.

Having done all I could for the moment to contact the man, I went to the coffee shop on the first floor of the office building for an early lunch. Velma Edison sat at the counter, and she called out loudly and patted the empty stool next to her, so—unless I wanted to be rude—I had no option but to take it.

Velma's in her forties and has never been married, which is probably a good thing, since she's the sort of person who could give wife-beaters a good name. She's a gossipy troublemaker who could win an Olympic gold medal for pessimism, but I hated eating in restaurants alone, so I sometimes put up with her.

"I see you're working for your brother again today," she said. "How's business?"

I never discussed Brad's business with anyone. In Velma's case, I took a perverse delight in making up outrageous stories of his investigations, which she seemed to believe. Once before, I invented a couple of murders he supposedly solved, so—now that he actually had a murder case—I said he was chasing an international jewel thief. While I waited for my lunch, I described scenes from the old Cary Grant movie, To Catch a Thief, which she failed to recognize.

Velma worked in a flower shop. I'd often wondered how a person with such a naturally sour disposition became a flower shop owner—an occupation I assumed required some joy and love of life. But what did I know? Apparently not wanting to leave her shop unattended for long, she finished her lunch quickly and hurried across the street to her store.

When she'd gone, Parry Williams, who owned the art gallery on the first floor, called and waved to me, and I joined her in a side booth. Parry was named for a place near where she was born in Canada and had a trace of what passes for a Canadian accent, mostly in the vowels, in her voice. She greeted me warmly the first day I worked for Brad and was the closest thing I had to a girlfriend in the building. Both of us single—she was widowed with five grown-up children she seldom visited—we sometimes went to dinner together or to a movie. Unfortunately, she liked films with sad endings, which you'd never guess from her otherwise jolly disposition.

"So you managed to get rid of Velma." She raised her eyes.

"She had to get back to her shop. Apparently left the door unlocked." I took a bite of the sandwich I'd brought with me to the booth. "So how's your business?"

"This is slow season."

"Is an office building a good location for an art gallery?"

"Yes, it works out very well. This building is still only partly occupied, and new renters for the offices upstairs need art to hang on their walls."

Much as I liked her personally, I found most of her merchandise consisted of large abstracts of the guess what I'm supposed to be variety and heaps of trash that someone had mistakenly dignified with the name of sculpture. Naturally, I hadn't been one of her customers. Impressionism is as far from photographic realism or even representational art as I cared to go. Nor had I seen any reason to buy her realistic painting of a roll of toilet paper.

"So long as you sell enough to pay the rent."

"Amen to that." She raised her hand and showed me crossed fingers.

I laughed, finished my coffee, and slid out of the booth. "I'd better get back to my office. I have to check for messages, and then I'm going to teach my bridge class."

"How's the investigation going?"

Having read everything about it in the newspapers and seen interviews on PBS, she asked if Brad was on the case, and I admitted he was but told her none of the details. Then I waved good-bye and took the elevator upstairs.

At one-thirty, Novotny called.

"You seem to have picked up Mr. Featherstone's briefcase by mistake," I told him.

"Yeah, I know."

"Can you come back to the office and return it?"

"Sorry. I have no wheels today. My car went into the shop. They dropped me off at your office, and afterward I took a cab."

"In that case, I'll come to your office."

"I'm not in the office now."

I waited for him to be specific about his location, but it took him a long time. "Tell you what," he finally said, "we could do it tonight, after I get my car back. Would you meet me at Tino's at seven? Since I'm unexpectedly solvent this week, I'll buy you dinner."

"Of course. I'll meet you there." I knew Brad would want me to. "But you don't have to buy my dinner. We'll just exchange briefcases."

"No, I'd like to. I hate eating alone. Unless you have other plans."

After thinking for a moment, I told Novotny I'd meet him at Tino's. That still gave me plenty of time to teach my bridge class at the Kozy Kard Klub.

I liked to play bridge as well as teach it. I was one of those rare women who paid more attention to the cards than the girl talk at the table. It was not always thus. When I was a child, my parents played bridge with their friends, and I could hear them from my bedroom before I fell asleep. I mentally added it to the other strange activities that adults engaged in and decided it was a game for people who had nothing better to do with their time.

Nevertheless, when my mother's sister came to live with us when I was a teenager, I was forced into learning in order to make a fourth for them. That's when I discovered I liked it. Not too dependent on chance, like most card games, it challenged me and made me think and plan ahead. After Stephen and I married, we played bridge with friends. When he died, I found I could earn money teaching the game to others at the recreation center. The extra income came in handy when Brad and Samantha were in college at the same time and needed to borrow money.

I wished they would take up the game, but they were ten years younger, and by then, they had computers, worked out at a gym, or watched some of the seven-thousand channels on television. When I heard Bill Gates played bridge, with Warren Buffett no less, I felt vindicated and decided they were probably responsible for restoring the game to a semblance of popularity. The Kozy Kard Klub had added ten new members that very year.

Thinking about playing bridge with Stephen reminded me that I planned to meet Carl Novotny later that day. In fact, I recognized the real reason for my eagerness. Brad had teased me about not dating, and now I had a chance for a rendezvous with an attractive man.

I hadn't dated in quite a while. After Stephen died, I became even closer to Brad and Samantha, but when they were both out of the house, I felt abandoned and lonely. Brad was at the police academy, and Samantha had a job as a clothes buyer for a very froufrou shop where apparel was displayed on a jungle gym. Plus, both had apartments of their own. Then I met and fell in lust with Lamar Grant, married him, and discovered his brain handled little more than remembering his ATM number. He also thought toilet paper grew on the holders, didn't know the difference between a laundry hamper and the floor, and might have had a talent-ectomy. Since our divorce almost a year before, I was gun-shy.

However, Novotny was apparently eligible. He worked for Hammond's company, and only wanted companionship for dinner. Okay, so maybe the police suspected him of the murder. That only made it more interesting. I could do some detecting. Perhaps I could find out things that Brad hadn't. And anyway, what could happen to me in a restaurant with a hundred other people? It wasn't like he asked me to meet him at a deserted rest stop on Interstate Five.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Before meeting Carl Novotny I had afternoon chores. First I called Rose Hammond, told her the investigation was going fine, and asked to speak to Debra. Rose said she'd gone to her office for a few hours. I asked for her daughter's office telephone number, called her, and made an appointment.

I no sooner hung up the phone when I realized I couldn't see Debra and teach my bridge class. I did a mental coin toss and decided Brad's case won, and I could probably get my favorite partner, Edgar Barth, to teach my class.

The moment I walked in the door of the Klub, Edgar greeted me. He was eighty-one years old, still tall and straight, and thin as a poplar tree. We'd met when, at seventy-six, he became a student in my class (proving that you're never too old to learn), and he was a stickler for following directions. Since remembering rules was a mark of all good bridge players, that made him a natural, and I could always depend on him to understand my bids and to understand his. He had a sharp mind and even sharper wit, and I knew I could trust him not to confuse my students during the lesson.

I made my request at once, and he agreed to teach the class.

"Thank you. I really appreciate your doing this."

"Don't gush," Edgar said. "Just name me Time's Person of the Year."

I laughed, as I usually did at Edgar's comments. It was like having a spouse again but without the sex and shopping issues.

"You don't ask me very often, and I'm happy to do it. I think you like teaching bridge more than actually playing the game."

"Not really. I'd rather be playing—with you as my partner—any day."

"I'll try to drum up a game for the weekend—that is, if you don't mind playing with us old people."

I punched him playfully on the arm. "You're not old."

"No, I'm chronologically enhanced."

* * *

Since Debra wanted to meet as soon as possible, I drove straight to Burlingame. I thanked my lucky stars she didn't work in the city, because I'd always considered driving in San Francisco as hazardous as bungee jumping. I invariably wound up on one-way streets that went in the wrong direction or climbed a hill as steep as the Matterhorn with red stop lights on every corner.

Burlingame, however, was a nearby town, and most of the newer office buildings were located on the flat area along the bay, surrounded by acres of free parking. I took the elevator to the ninth floor of her building and entered a door marked, "Quentin Yarnow, Investment Advisor." Inside, five young people—none of whom appeared to have been alive when the first Matrix movie came out—sat at tables topped with computer monitors swaddled in piles of paper.

Finally, a thin young woman with straight hair and glasses looked over and asked if she could help me, and when I mentioned Debra's name, she got up. Giving me a look that I interpreted to mean, "Follow me," she went down a narrow hallway, opened one of the three doors, then stepped aside and disappeared back the way we'd come.

Debra's office contained a table similar to the ones in the larger office, and there, too, a computer monitor poked its rectangular head above a boxcar load of paper. I wondered what one had to do to graduate from the crowded front office to a cubbyhole of one's own. Apparently not age, since Debra, like my sister, Samantha, was twenty-nine and didn't look a bit older than the people out front. In fact, she looked younger, since she'd pushed her blonde hair back with a band that morning and wore a white blouse and tan jacket over jeans. In that office, Casual Friday had apparently morphed into the other days of the week as well.

When she saw me, she got up, removed a pile of business magazines and computer printouts from a chair, and pulled it close to hers. "Excuse the mess. Computers were supposed to free us from paper, but you know the rest."

I figured her office alone had caused the death of two million trees, but I only asked, "What's on all this paper?"

"My boss, Mr. Yarnow, handles investments for people, and we do the research. Almost everything is on a database these days, so we access the information and evaluate it."

"You mean like stocks and bonds?"

"We also study mutual funds for some of our clients."

"I have some investments myself." I thought of my shares in a few blue-chip companies Stephen left me.

She didn't comment on that. "We report what we've learned to Mr. Yarnow, and then he makes the decisions on what to buy for his clients, but the genius comes in making those decisions."

"You sound as if you admire his capability."

"Very much. He only takes on a few clients, and he's so good he has a waiting list. New ones get on only when someone dies, and then their heirs get first crack."

Well, so much for thinking about my own small portfolio and wondering if being friends with Debra would get me into the rarified atmosphere of having my very own investment advisor.

To say nothing of her next words. "Clients start with at least a million to invest."

I cleared my throat. "I won't keep you long. Brad's busy working on the case. He's already talked to the police and to several people in your father's office."

"Does he suspect anyone?"

"Everyone." I smiled, then turned serious again. "One of the things he's asked about is your father's briefcase. Did you see it the night of the murder?"

If you think about it, I didn't actually lie. Brad had asked people about the briefcase, and I needed to ask her if she'd seen it to justify my coming that day.

Debra looked thoughtful then shrugged. "Sorry. I know nothing about it. I didn't know he had one with him that night."

She waited for me to continue, and I mentally ticked questions off my list. Also, I wondered how to broach my real reason for the visit, her love life. My upbringing taught me never to pry into other people's affairs—whoops, a Freudian slip of thought—and I had no practice in it. I finally decided to approach it obliquely.

"What do you think of Amanda?"

Debra frowned. "Brad doesn't think she killed my father, does he?"

"Shouldn't he?"

She didn't speak for some time, as if forming a noncommittal answer. "I don't know her all that well, but I've always assumed she enjoyed working for my father. He thought very highly of her."

"Too highly, according to your mother."

"I'm afraid Mother tends to get paranoid about her." Impatience tinged her words. "Sure, he spent a lot of time at the office and sometimes worked late with Amanda, but that doesn't mean they were into hanky-panky."

"Then you don't agree with your mother that they might have been lovers."

"Not at all. I'm a businesswoman myself. I know you can work with men and not get romantically involved. Mother's old-fashioned. She believes women ought to marry, raise children, and serve on charity boards—not become heads of corporations. Mother thinks women only work until they can marry the boss. I often told her she had no need to be jealous."

"She thinks your father contemplated calling himself CEO of Hammond Jewelers and making Amanda president in his place. Do you know anything about that?"

"No, I don't." She paused and looked toward the computer screen briefly. "However, that might have been a good thing. If he relaxed control a little, he could spend more time with Mother. She ought to have liked that. But now—"

She broke off, and I suspected she was realizing that her father would never do those things. Her eyes misted, and her hands reached into a desk drawer for a tissue to wipe the tears away.

I felt even more uncomfortable. Not only did I have to ask personal questions, but I'd reminded her of a painfully tragic event. However, circumstances had thrust me into the role of apprentice-detective, and Debra had come to Brad for help, so like it or not, I forced down my uneasiness and continued.

"For what it's worth, Amanda denies anything between them."

"I'm glad."

"However, she said other things that need to be checked."

"What things?"

"She said she saw both you and your mother go near the linen room that night."

"I told you, we went to the ladies' room, which happened to be in the same hallway. I didn't go in the room where Daddy had gone. I didn't know which one it was. Is Amanda trying to throw suspicion on my mother? She may have been jealous, but she wouldn't kill him."

"And you," I added.

"Me? That's even more ridiculous. What motive could I possibly have?"

"Amanda says she heard rumors that you're involved with a man your father disapproved of."

There, I'd said it. I watched for Debra's reaction. Her face reddened. Her hands, which had been crumpling the tissue as if getting ready to throw it in a wastebasket, suddenly froze. The next moment, she turned away from me and tossed it. When she turned back again, her eyes and lips had narrowed.

"Did she name this person?"

"No." Of course, Novotny had named James Powell, but I didn't want to bring Novotny's name into it.

She seemed to think about that first. "Who I see in my personal life has nothing to do with my father's murder."

"Then you aren't seeing someone he didn't approve of?"

"Even if I were, that wouldn't make me guilty of killing him."

I didn't want to say that Brad thought it possible, so I blamed it on Amanda. "Amanda hinted you might have considered it an important issue and that perhaps your father threatened to cut you out of his will."

"That sounds like something from one of the old 1940s movies they run on channel thirty-six." She lowered her voice. "I'm sorry, but it's just preposterous."

"I'm sorry too, but you can see that I had to ask the question, just for the record."

"I understand."

I felt she considered the matter closed, and I couldn't bring myself to reopen it, but I knew something else. By not denying it, Debra had clearly indicated she was involved with a person her father might have considered unsuitable. Like a panhandler with halitosis. I still didn't believe she'd kill her father because he disapproved—I hoped my instincts were better than that—but I couldn't help thinking she hadn't told me everything.

I got to my feet. "Well, I'll be on my way. If you should think of anything we ought to know, please call."

"Of course." She stood and opened her office door for me. "Have you told Mother that Amanda denied having an affair with Father?"

"Not yet."

"I'll do it. Maybe that will cheer her up a little. Personally, I've never believed it. That sort of thing just doesn't happen in our family."

Oh, sure. Like murder.

*  *   *

Back in the office, I typed what I could remember of my conversation with Debra. Before I finished, Brad came in and asked what I was working on.

"My conversation with Debra. Since I know your client this time, I'm naturally anxious to help you solve the case."

He came up behind me, leaned over my shoulder, and read what I'd typed. "So, is Debra having an affair with Powell?"

"I just came from her office, and I asked her point blank about having an affair. She evaded my question but denied anything like that would have made her kill her father."

"You're evading the question. Is she seeing the guy?"

"She never mentioned a name, and I didn't ask about Powell." I went on the defensive to avoid criticism. "If you'll just leave me alone for a few minutes, I'll finish typing up my notes, and you can see for yourself." I turned my chair around toward the computer again. "I didn't take your other recorder, but I have a good memory, you know."

"You have a selective memory, Livvie. Like the names of obscure actors, but not your school teachers."

"That's because I haven't seen a teacher in a hundred years. However, this conversation is still fresh in my mind, and my selective memory is going to remember everything Debra said and print it out for you."

"Good." He paused. "I'll see the vice president tomorrow and sweet talk some secretaries. Maybe I can find out if there's any funny business going on at Hammond Jewelers. With the kind of money that's involved, it would be surprising not to be a factor. I have a hunch greed didn't die with the revelations of the Wall Street bankers. In my opinion, greed motivates ninety percent of what's wrong with society today."

I teased him. "My, we're getting profound, aren't we? Next you'll be telling me that money can't buy happiness."

"'No, but it's way ahead of whatever's in second place.'"

"'Or it can buy you the kind of misery you prefer,'" I quoted, and we played another game of who can remember the most clichés.

As usual, Brad won. His eclectic style of reading included not just psychology, law, and the mysteries of Dashiell Hammett, Michael Connolly, and Lee Child, but also Oscar Wilde and collections of the ever-popular Murphy.

As I left the office building and walked across the parking lot to my car, I continued to grin, but the black sky and cold night air chilled me, reminding me that someone I once knew had been murdered, and that was no laughing matter.

CHAPTER NINE

Tino's was a well-known Italian eatery, famous for its fettuccine with clam sauce. Personally, I usually went for the ravioli, because that's one thing you can't easily make at home. Not that I cooked much anymore. I'd tried to be the perfect wife and mother, perfect housekeeper, and perfect chef while Stephen was alive, but afterward, I allowed myself to slip. With the twins grown and on their own, I had no one to cook for, no need to prepare gourmet or even non-gourmet meals, and for all I knew, space aliens had taken up residence in my oven.

While in college, I worked summers in a health food store and read their literature, so by then, except for restaurant meals with friends, which supplied the necessary levels of protein and cholesterol, I lived most of the time on fruit, cereal, salad, and whole wheat bread, with only an occasional foray into the wilds of Kentucky Fried Chicken. And chocolate.

Thanks to Cadbury's dark chocolate, I almost consumed enough sugar to decay all the teeth in California.

In the dim light of Tino's lobby, Carl Novotny looked even younger than he had that afternoon, and, whereas I'd pegged him at mid-forties, now I wondered if he'd even reached that decade yet. I'd had just enough time to go home, change clothes, and repair my makeup before meeting him, so I didn't think anyone would mistake me for his mother, but I'd have preferred to look twenty-something and holding. Instead, I harbored a slightly uncomfortable feeling. Guilt, I decided. He only wanted to get his briefcase back and have dinner without people thinking he had no life, and I acted as if it were a date. Stupid. Showed what lack of practice in the social arts could do.

"Hi." He looked just a tad uncomfortable too. Probably regretting his rash invitation.

I contributed my part to getting the witty repartee off to a good start. "Hi." Then I remembered I was supposed to return the briefcase, and I'd left it in the trunk of my car. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Novotny. The briefcase is in my car." I pointed toward the parking lot.

"That's okay. Mr. Featherstone's is in my car too. We'll swap them after dinner. And please, call me Carl."

"Call me Olivia." Then a waiter came up and led us to a table.

Tino's Italian decor consisted of a ceiling of crisscrossed lath strips clogged with plastic grape vines and tables holding Chianti bottles with dripping candle wax. I figured the only reason they didn't have aspiring opera singers taking requests for "Come Back to Sorrento" was that so many diners crammed the place that the singers wouldn't have been able to get between the tables without waxing their hips.

Carl didn't open his menu but looked over at me and thanked me for coming. "I don't cook, and eating alone night after night gets mighty boring after a while. Besides, it's my fault about the briefcase. I need it first thing tomorrow. You're really doing me a favor."

"No problem." Even though I knew I'd order the ravioli, I studied my menu, which was the size of a small billboard, and glanced at Carl from time to time. He seemed nervous, not at all the brusque businessman who'd been in Brad's office earlier, full of ideas about who might have murdered Harry.

After we ordered and he drank some of the red wine the waiter poured into our glasses, Carl looked a bit more relaxed. "I'm sorry about somehow picking up Mr. Featherstone's briefcase this afternoon. I'm not usually so stupid."

"An honest mistake. They look a lot alike. Yet, the one you left behind belonged to Harry Hammond. I wondered how you came to have it."

"I picked it up at the hotel."

"Where in the hotel? Not the room where Harry was killed, I hope."

"Oh, no." He took another sip of wine before continuing. "Not when I found him."

"Later?"

"Yes. Look, I know this may sound a little, uh, insensitive, but…" He put his wineglass down and leaned forward across the small table between us, keeping his voice low. "Rose Hammond told me Harry had gone into that room to look over the notes for his speech. So when they started to serve dinner and he still hadn't returned, I went in and found him lying on the floor, the back of his head…" He grimaced. "You don't want to know."

Right. "Did you touch anything?"

"No, of course not. I rushed over to Harry and felt for a pulse, but I could see it was already too late just by looking at him."

Carl took a deep breath and seemed to shudder. I decided he was either a very good actor or he hadn't made that fatal, unmentionable wound himself.

Carl continued. "I flagged down a passing waiter in the hallway, said it was an emergency, and asked for the manager. He told me to wait there while he got him. When the manager came, I told him about Harry, and he pulled out his cell phone and called the police. Then we both went back to the linen room and waited until the cops came."

His long explanation seemed rehearsed, but then I guessed he'd said it to the police officers who questioned him as well as other people.

"And the manager didn't touch anything either?"

"No, we both just stood there, sort of standing guard."

"So when did you pick up the briefcase?"

"After the police came and questioned me."

The waiter appeared with our salads. When he was safely out of earshot, Carl went back to his story.

"When I returned to the reception room, I saw the briefcase standing on the floor next to one of the bars, and I realized it was Harry's. I thought that everything might be impounded or whatever the police do, and I didn't see why the business should be hampered just so they could fuss over a bunch of papers. So I just picked it up and walked out with it. Maybe I shouldn't have, but that's what I did." He shrugged.

I dipped a piece of Italian bread into the olive oil-garlic-herb mixture and Carl did the same. On one hand, I thought he should never have taken the briefcase but handed it over to the police instead. Yet, Brad had talked to Tom Ortega that afternoon, and, at least according to him, the police didn't seem to want the thing.

"So much for Saturday night," I reminded Carl. "If you were so concerned about business, why didn't you return the briefcase to Amanda Dillon or at least bring it to the office on Monday?"

He took a bite of bread and chewed a lot before answering, and I wondered if he could invent a plausible story on the spur of the moment.

"To tell the truth, I forgot it. When I left the hotel that night, I took it home, but on Monday morning, I just got ready to go to work as usual and didn't remember it until after I got there."

My suspicions came back. How could he possibly forget that he'd discovered a dead body and took away Harry's briefcase?

Apparently, he read the skepticism on my face, because he again leaned forward, worry lines creasing his forehead. "I know it sounds improbable, but I can't help it. That's what happened."

After more thinking, he seemed to realize he needed to say more. "It's not like I forgot Harry'd been killed. I spent most of Sunday calling just about everybody in the company, and I thought of what his death meant to my own job, all the things I'd have to take care of."

His excuse sounded plausible, but there was something else. "What did you and Amanda quarrel about when Brad, that is Mr. Featherstone, saw you in the hallway on Monday?"

"I don't remember. I'm sure it can't have been anything important."

"Not the briefcase?"

"No."

"But you didn't go back home to get it."

"No. I knew she had her hands full with a million other things anyway. Hammond's death threw everything into chaos."

"So what about today?" I prompted.

"Yes. This morning I had it with me but discovered my car wouldn't start, and I had to have it towed. You know the rest."

Either the wine worked some kind of magic on me or everything sounded logical, so I accepted Carl's explanations at face value. I relaxed and sat back in my chair, thinking of my next line of interrogation. Should I try to learn more about the stock deal that the vice president seemed to be involved in? Or would it be better to ask why he thought Debra might be having an affair?

Instead, our dinners came, and I spent the next few moments enjoying mine and stealing looks at Carl. In high school, I stopped going steady with a boy when, at dinner one night, I saw him let long strands of spaghetti dangle from his mouth. I used to laugh at my mother, who read etiquette books for fun, but some of her nightly instructions on the basics of table manners apparently stuck. Both she and Miss Manners—who once wrote, "Home is not an etiquette-free zone"—would approve of the neat way Carl ate his fettuccine.

"Tell me about Amanda," I asked him. "Is she really running the company now?"

"Sure. She ran it whenever Harry left town, so that's the same. Of course, the directors have yet to meet. They'll decide."

"And what about you? You indicated this afternoon you could move up, perhaps supplant Ziegler as vice president."

Carl wiped his mouth and took a sip of wine before he answered. "That would have happened even without Harry's death, but it's more likely now. Ziegler never liked Amanda, and everybody knew it."

"Still, you and Amanda get along all right."

"Of course. She's very smart." He smiled at me before returning his attention to the fettuccine.

I felt he tried just a little too hard to convince me, and then another thought intruded. Maybe the office romance involved not Harry and Amanda but Carl and Amanda. If so, then why did he invite me to Tino's? Why buy dinner for a thorn when he could have a rose?

Carl seemed to read my thoughts. "Amanda is so beautiful she's not always taken seriously, but believe me—she's very dedicated to her job. She deserves her success." He looked over at me and grinned. "I'm afraid talking about one woman in the presence of another is not exactly chivalrous behavior. Tell me about yourself. How long have you worked for Mr. Featherstone?"

Relaxed or not, I still preferred to be the questioner, not the question-ee, and I didn't want to go into details or tell him Brad was my brother, so I just continued my own agenda.

"Mr. Featherstone thinks you and Amanda might have had something going."

Blaming other people for my own thoughts was becoming a habit, but heck, I figured all's fair in love and detecting.

Carl looked genuinely shocked at my suggestion and stared at me for a few seconds. "Why on earth would he think that? Even if she were my type—which she's definitely not—she'd be more apt to fool around with Harry. Although frankly, I didn't buy that either. I think she has someone outside the company, which makes a lot more sense."

I tended to believe him, and I reassured him with a smile. "I think you're right, but office gossip always wants to link up single people, doesn't it?"

"I haven't been single very long. In fact, I'm not divorced yet. My wife left two months ago, and we're still seeing lawyers over the distribution of assets. She doesn't want the house, so I'm living in it until we can sell it."

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks." He took another sip of wine. "We were married almost ten years. Then Christmas day—Christmas for God's sake—she moved out."

His face turned red, and he put his fork down. I decided he hadn't confided this information to anyone else and needed to talk about it. I often had that effect on people. Perfect strangers I happen to sit next to in the dentist's waiting room have been known to share with me their spouse's bad habits or their children's ingratitude.

He filled in some details, finished with, "I'm sorry," and looked into his plate as if the strands of pasta made a design like the shroud of Turin.

"Did she say why she wanted the divorce?" I asked.

"She said I hadn't lived up to her expectations. She thought I should have had a much better position and been a lot wealthier by now."

"That's too bad. Do you have children?"

"No. I used to wish we had, but I don't anymore. I can see now she wanted a kind of life she read about in those glitzy magazines. She had no career and wanted to shop at Gump's and Louis Vuitton. Nothing we had was ever good enough."

"Do you still love her?"

"God, no. I'm angry as hell, but I don't want her back." He picked up his fork, looked at me, and grinned again. "I'm not used to this dating business yet, but I'm beginning to see there are a lot more fish in the ocean."

I wondered whether I ought to feel complimented or check my pocket mirror for gills. I decided I'd test his reaction to me and get that out of the way right up front. "Brad Featherstone is my brother."

His eyebrows shot up, but the grin didn't leave his face. "Really?"

"I have a sister too. They're twins, ten years younger than I am."

"I still say you're too attractive to be older than Featherstone."

Then my face got red. I could feel the heat rising all the way to the roots of my hair.

"You're blushing. Don't other men tell you how good-looking you are?"

I didn't answer that, since, "What other men?" didn't convey the image I preferred to project. However, it reminded me that I needed to stop my interior whining over Lamar and survey the field again. "Why did you invite me to dinner? How did you know I wasn't married?"

"Simple. You weren't wearing a wedding ring."

"You noticed."

"I looked. Are you divorced or widowed?"

He shot encouraging signals across the table at me. It must have been that chemistry they talked about. I'd always felt funny when a man was coming on to me, like there were neutrons or something charging the air. I could feel them coming from his eyes. They were blue. I'd always liked blue eyes.

I decided to enjoy the moment. "Both. My first husband died in a car accident seven years ago. Then, two years ago, I married again, and we've been divorced almost a year."

"Yet, you kept his name?"

"My, you are observant. Yes, I got used to writing Olivia Grant and decided to keep the shorter name. My siblings are stuck with our father's name, and Samantha still groans about having to write Samantha Featherstone on everything. She tells me she won't get married until she finds a man whose last name is Oz."

He laughed, a nice hearty laugh, and I smiled some more. He refilled my wineglass and waved away the hovering waiter who wanted to hijack an empty plate. I used to think they did that because nobody ever taught them it's impolite to remove a plate while the other person is still eating, but then I learned they wanted to hustle you out of the restaurant so they could use the table again. Okay, so maybe their prices would have gone up if the turnover decreased, but let's face it, we didn't eat in restaurants to save money.

"Are you a native Californian?" Carl asked.

"I was born in Illinois, but my father came over from England as a young man. I was fourteen when my parents moved to California. How about you?"

"Florida originally. Then my college roommate told me about San Francisco. I did post-grad work at State."

"I went to UC Berkeley. My father wanted to send me to Stanford, but the times being what they were, I thought I'd find more radicals across the bay. I'd worn clothes from second-hand or charity stores and straightened my hair."

"You straightened your hair?"

"Curly hair was out. Long and straight was in."

He laughed again. "I'm glad you don't straighten it anymore. I like it this way."

I rattled on, trying to cover my discomfort at his compliment while making my feeble participation in the rebellious youth era sound more interesting than the reality. In truth, I could never completely eradicate my conservative genes. And he told me about his very Leave It to Beaver upbringing. Dessert and coffee came. He paid the bill, and still we sat and talked.

Finally, the appearance of the waiter, trying to fill our still-full water glasses for the fourth time, registered on me, and I reached for my coat. We talked some more on the sidewalk outside, said good-bye at last, and I got into my car. I'd driven halfway home before I realized we'd never made the briefcase swap at all. Now I'd have to see the man again. Oh, darn.

CHAPTER TEN

Since I hadn't been able to fit my cell phone in my evening purse—not with the more necessary items like read-the-menu glasses, skinny billfold, and car and house keys—I'd left it in the car. Now that I was in the car, I pulled it out and googled Carl's name. He was the only Carl Novotny who lived in San Ricardo, so I noted the address and pointed the car in the right direction. My watch indicated it was close to eleven, but he couldn't be in bed yet, probably hadn't even arrived home.

As I drove, I pondered the wisdom of my actions. Was it smart to go to the man's house this late at night? Would he consider it an invitation to something more intimate than our restaurant dinner? Of course, I had a legitimate reason for the trip. He'd said he needed the briefcase urgently the next morning. What if he invited me in for a nightcap and then made a move on me? I hadn't made up my mind about that when I began to wonder, as perhaps the police did, if he killed Harry. Did I want to start an affair with a possible murderer?

I remembered something he'd said about his soon-to-be ex-wife, that she found his income unacceptable. Would he have killed Harry so he could be promoted to vice president and keep her in Italian shoes? No. I believed him when he said he didn't want her back.

Yet, could he have killed Harry for some other reason? He admitted taking Hammond's briefcase. Perhaps evidence of some kind hid among the papers. Either Brad and I didn't recognize it, or Carl removed something incriminating between Saturday night and that morning. Again, I rejected the notion. Brad had discussed the contents with Amanda on the phone, and she hadn't said anything was missing. I decided to relax and just go with whatever flow appeared.

Carl lived on a tree-lined street not far from San Ricardo's downtown. Once more, I thanked the transportation gods that I didn't have to drive into San Francisco. Realistically though, it wouldn't make much sense for Carl to work at Hammond Jewelry headquarters in San Ricardo and live in the city. Even in gold-rush days, when the bankers and railroad barons thrived, they built their summer mansions in the suburbs to the south of the city for the warmer weather. I think Mark Twain once said, "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco."

I found the right house and wondered if I had in fact beaten Carl home. Darkness, except for some light coming from a first-floor window, lay everywhere on the building, especially the front entryway. A smidgen of fear traced its way up my spine. I was all alone, the hour was late, and I was a woman who knew no karate. I quickly reminded myself I'd gone into a quiet, homey neighborhood, not a garbage-strewn slum, and if Novotny wasn't there yet, he would be soon.

I steered my car into the driveway at the left side of the house, turned off the engine, and pressed the trunk-release button, then unfastened my seat belt. When I looked up, I saw something dart across the front lawn to the right, away from me. My heart thumped, but I waited a moment, staring at the shadows and shrubs where I thought I'd seen it. Still, nothing moved.

After a moment, I decided nervousness had triggered my imagination, nothing more. I got out of the car, rounded my front bumper, and took the sidewalk angling from the driveway toward the front door. Another obstacle blocked my way. Two shallow steps, followed by a wrought-iron gate with a latch on top. I groaned. It wasn't the first time I'd run into suburban houses that made visitors' lives miserable with stairs or gates to deal with. And this house had both.

Why did people do that? Why not plain level sidewalks for people who were no longer young or those who were handicapped? And why the gate? Who did the owner think that would keep out? Not a burglar, certainly. All it did was force the person they really did want to see to struggle with lifting a latch, which, thanks to Bay Area weather, was probably rusty and difficult to pry loose.

Fortunately, I managed to operate the latch but didn't relock the gate behind me. With luck, it would still be open when I needed to get through it on my way out.

Next, I devoted my attention to the rest of the walkway and saw the door of the house standing open. Whereas it had all been dark shortly before, light now poured out from the opening and made a square yellow patch on the small front stoop. Had Novotny heard my car and come to the door to greet me? Then where was he? I could see into the hallway, and no one stood there.

That earlier feeling returned and grew. A shiver waltzed up my legs and spread into my arms, freezing them against my body, while my heart tried to do a fandango in my chest. Yet my feet kept going forward, along the sidewalk and up another step. I told them not to be so stupid, reminded them that in movies, when foolish people went into open doors uninvited, they always found dead bodies or became dead bodies. But I couldn't stop.

Once inside the entry, I called, "Carl?" but no one answered.

To the right of the hallway I saw a rectangular living room, which held a grand piano, two long sofas, some chairs, and a fireplace in the opposite wall. Oh, yes, it also held a possibly dead body.

A scream formed in my throat but refused to come out. Instead, I felt hypnotized. Common sense told me to get away, but I couldn't. My legs apparently obeyed the same stubborn streak because, stiff as tree stumps, they never stopped moving toward the body on the floor. Fortunately, Carl, whom I now recognized, lay on his side, so I saw his face. I could never have turned him over if he'd been face down. Although, at the moment, he showed as many vital signs as a parking meter, I decided he wasn't dead.

He had a nasty wound on his head from which blood oozed, as if he'd been struck with another of those famous blunt objects. Not that I'd know the difference between that and a bullet hole, but I assumed a gunshot to the head would have been fatal. Although he seemed pale enough to be a corpse, his chest moved up and down, albeit almost imperceptibly. He was breathing.

Relieved to know he hadn't died from the blow, I felt my body begin to take orders from my brain again. I could handle this. I'd call 9-1-1, and they'd take care of it. Once more, I pulled out my cell phone and pushed the numbers. I gave the information requested and hung up. Then I tried Brad. He didn't answer at his apartment, and I wondered if his lunch with Amanda had evolved into dinner and maybe more. Finally, I heard voicemail.

I'd grown up with television, computers, and numerous electronics, but no one taught etiquette for announcing almost-dead bodies. I glanced at my watch and just plunged in.

"It's eleven-twenty. I'm at Carl Novotny's house, and he's lying on the floor unconscious. If you get home soon—"

Brad's voice came on the line at once. Loudly. "What did you say?"

"Carl Novotny is lying on the floor of his house with a gash in his head."

"He's alive?"

"So far. I called 9-1-1."

"Good. What's the address?"

I told him, and he said, "I'll be there in two minutes." Then the phone crashed in my ear, and the dial tone hummed.

I went back to Novotny, feeling like some kind of jinx. Stephen had died, Lamar turned out to be a soulless machine (although nicely dressed), and now Carl had been attacked. Did some lesser god have it in for the men in my life? I stared at Carl. Don't you dare die, I told him silently.

He continued to breathe, which I considered a good thing since I had no desire to practice mouth-to-mouth resuscitation with all that blood around. I perched on the edge of a chair and just watched him while I waited. I noticed the fireplace poker lay near the grate, but I didn't touch it or even go near it.

I hated it when movie plots had the innocent bystander pick up the murder weapon and get his fingerprints on it. Okay, Carl wasn't dead, but I knew enough not to do that.

Brad appeared, and I told him how I happened to be there, that Carl wanted to swap briefcases. I skipped the dinner and personal stuff but mentioned everything that happened since I arrived at Carl's house.

"You saw someone running away just before you came in?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe not. A shadow, a large dog, a bush moved by the wind."

"There's no wind tonight."

"Whatever. The more I think about it, the less certain I am that I saw anything. Perhaps it was only that unnecessary gate out front."

Black-and-white squad cars soon arrived to fill up the street, and the world outside became very noisy. Brad leaned close to me. "I'll do all the talking, but if they question you, tell them just what you told me."

An ambulance arrived, siren blaring, and a white-coat paramedic ordered me to move my car so they could park in the driveway. When I got back, three police officers were going through the house checking it out and another talked to Brad in the kitchen.

I perched on a chair again while the paramedics hovered over Novotny, doing their thing. They took a while. I had expected them to put him on a stretcher and haul him away immediately, but by the time they wheeled him out on a collapsible gurney, he had a plastic cone over his nose and mouth and a little hose, hooked up to something in a bottle, snaked up his arm.

Finally, they left, and I sat alone in the living room. Now that the worst had passed, my body shook from delayed reaction. I'd been calm until then, but I remembered how Carl and I had spent the evening and how much I liked the man. Then I realized Hammond had been killed and Novotny struck down. Tremors went through me. My mouth went dry. I might have been next. Hadn't I realized that this private detective business involved danger? I felt both hot and cold, and I hyperventilated.

I sat back and closed my eyes, trying to take shallow breaths. I sensed someone coming up to me, and I opened my eyes to see Brad and another man in plain clothes whom I took to be a detective. He asked a lot of questions and wrote down my answers in a small notebook. Eventually he got to the last, most important, one.

"Mr. Featherstone tells me you saw someone run out of the house just as you arrived."

I glanced at Brad, who looked surprised at the question. "I'm not sure what I saw," I told the detective. "It happened so fast, and it was dark, and I wasn't paying much attention. I sort of saw it out of the corner of my eye, you know?"

"But you thought you saw a person?"

"I did at first, but then I decided it might have been a dog. Or just bushes. Or shadows."

He gave up on that, probably thought it was the insane gibberish of someone who'd been off her meds too long. He took my address and phone number then said I could go.

Brad helped me to my feet, and I walked unsteadily to the door. "I'll drive you home."

The fresh air outside revived me considerably, so I told him I felt better and could do it myself.

"If you remember anything else, no matter how trivial, be sure to tell me."

I agreed and walked down the now-empty driveway toward my car. Lights shone out from windows and open doors of the houses nearby, and clusters of people stood across the street, watching us. I felt a little guilty about whatever I might, or might not, have seen, wondering if perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it to Brad at all.

As I drove home, I saw a blinking security light on my dashboard and realized my trunk lid wasn't closed all the way. I had no desire to stop, get out of the car, and latch it. Not until I reached the safety of my garage. I remembered that someone wanted certain people dead. My guilty feeling increased, too, because Harry's briefcase still sat in there, and I had failed to tell the detective that I went to Novotny's house to return it. I didn't leave that out intentionally. The officer never asked why I was there in the first place.

After a moment, I reassured myself that Brad had probably reported it anyway, so when I returned to the safety of my locked garage, I just slammed the trunk lid tightly closed and scampered into the house. I'd worry about what to do with the briefcase later.

Meanwhile, I relocked all the doors and windows, fixed myself a cup of hot peppermint tea, and climbed into bed, wishing I didn't live alone. I wondered if I should get a dog. A large dog, lean and mean, who'd sleep in my room and make a meal out of anyone who tried to hurt me. While I debated the various merits of German shepherds, Dobermans, or pit bulls, which were probably illegal in the city, I fell asleep.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The next morning, I had another surprise. Brad was already in his office when I arrived. He looked unusually pale, and my concern instincts clicked in. "Are you okay?"

"As you can probably tell by my newly decorated leg, I've got a little problem." He swiveled his chair around so I could see the cast that adorned his foot. "It's only sprained, but it hurts like hell, and the doctor told me to stay off of it for a few days. After I send you on your way, I'm going to the drugstore to get a prescription filled."

"How did you manage to sprain it?"

"Just lucky, I guess. Or else that gate and the two steps in front of it I tripped over had it in for me."

I tapped myself on the chest. "I nearly did that too. I wish I could have warned you."

"Some people are idiots."

I only nodded. "Sending me? Where are you sending me?"

"Are you up for a trip to L.A.?"

Los Angeles? What could he want me to do down there? Of course, the reason came to me almost at once: to snoop into Harry Hammond's activities in La-La Land the previous week. But, wait a minute. Brad had said he was going to go to L.A. to do that.

"I thought you wanted to go."

While I removed my coat, he explained. "I need to talk to John Ziegler. Novotny seemed to think the man has ulterior motives, and within hours of telling me, Novotny's in the hospital."

"So, you think there's a connection? And Harry's murder might be linked to someone or something down there?"

"It's possible. In addition," he said, "I owe it to Rose to follow every lead."

"So, while you're questioning Ziegler again, I'm going to L.A. to sniff out other angles."

"Plus, that should be done before the trail—if there is one—gets too cold. I'd like to check it out myself, just in case it's tied in, but I can't be in two places at the same time. Even if I could hobble onto an airplane, I don't think I'd be very effective down there today."

"Well, in that case, why don't I go to Los Angeles for you?"

Brad grinned. "So, why don't you go to Los Angeles for me?"

"What a good idea," I said, sounding like I'd never heard of it before. That kind of sequence was another game we played occasionally. It's great to have a brother who catches on fast.

Brad grinned, then looked solemn. "However, I've been sitting here thinking perhaps I shouldn't send my own sister."

"Besides being a relative, I'm a modern woman. I live in my own home, manage my finances, and even do a little charity work. I don't require meals-on-wheels. I deliver them. And I'm younger than Sandra Bullock or Jennifer Aniston. Would you think they're too old?"

"Okay. Okay. But it could be dangerous. Didn't last night teach you this is no game for amateurs?"

"Amateurs? I know how to interview people. I did a lot of suspect-questioning in England recently. Besides, I've been working for you since I returned. You trust me. Anyway, this time I'll be talking to businessmen in their offices, not gangsters."

I hoped I conveyed my confidence to him. Although finding Carl's wounded body had shaken me a bit, morning brought my spirits up again. Sunshine did that to me. I smiled and made myself look taller, if not formidable. "What can happen?"

"Look what happened last night."

"It's daytime now." I'd been feeling guilty about not telling Brad that Carl and I had dinner together, so now I did, adding that I ended up bringing the briefcase to his house.

"What did you talk about at dinner? Anything important?"

"I found out where he picked up the briefcase." I filled him in on everything I'd learned but skipped our final conversation, the one in which Novotny found me attractive. I couldn't see how withholding that would impede the investigation.

"Then we forgot to swap the briefcases after all, so I drove to his house, which turned out to be a good thing, since I must have found him soon after he was attacked."

Brad thought for a while. "You okay now?"

"I'm fine."

"You didn't look very good last night."

"Well, just for a moment, I felt a little queasy. I'm recovered now. It's not like he was really dead."

"Yet, it sure looks like someone wanted Novotny out of the way." He shrugged, then reached into his desk drawer. "By the way, here's the list Amanda gave me of the people Hammond visited in L.A. Also the hotel he stayed at. You need anything else?"

"Well, there's the matter of getting people to talk to me. I need some official-looking ID."

"Right." He cleared his throat, checked a different desk drawer, and handed me a small stack of business cards. They all looked like his, but my name appeared in one corner. Plus, the word Associate. The result of a computer program and his watching The Rockford Files on television when he was a child. He also gave me a four-by-six photo of Harry. "I don't think you'll need this, but take it just in case."

"Do you think the police have already been down there talking to these people?"

"Tom says the cops are concentrating their attention up here, at least for now, so the answer is probably no. With too few detectives and even less time, they aren't keen to spread it out more than necessary. Good luck."

He made a big deal of getting out of his chair carefully and headed for the door. I could tell he was in pain and hoped the trip to the drugstore would take care of that.

Thank goodness he hadn't mentioned his briefcase, because it was still at Novotny's house, and Harry's lay in the trunk of my car. I knew if I told that to Brad, he'd have insisted on giving it to Amanda, even though that wouldn't get his own back. I still didn't want to do anything to help Amanda. Call me stubborn. Before falling asleep the night before, I got to wondering why Brad hadn't picked up his phone right away when I called from Carl's house, and I decided he and Amanda were making out or whatever they called it these days.

"I'll be back tonight. Harry's funeral is tomorrow, and I want to be here for that."

Brad gave me that universal, I'll-never-understand-some-people look. "Be sure that you are. I'll wait up for you."

I liked the idea that he worried about me, would sit up all night waiting, even though I knew his concern was unjustified.

"I'll take the recorder this time and get everything. I'll be fine." I gave him a high five and closed his door behind me as I left.

In the receptionist's office, I cancelled Brad's reservation and made my own on one of United's commuter flights. Then, I phoned the hospital and asked about Carl. They'd only say he was doing well, but I didn't necessarily believe them. I often read the front pages of the tabloids at the supermarket. According to their statistics, lots of people died from infections they got in hospitals, instead of the minor problem they came in with.

*  *   *

I had a friend who, every time she went to San Francisco, headed first for Union Square and from there to her destination. If she had two errands, she went back to Union Square in between them or she got lost. That was her point of reference.

We laughed about this, but I was the same way in Los Angeles. Except my point of reference was the airport. Imagine trying to get across that city if you had to go back and forth to LAX! So I didn't bother renting a car but simply took a taxi everywhere. After all, we were on an expense account, and as was pretty obvious by now, I didn't like driving anyway.

My interviews went according to plan. Brad had, of course, telephoned ahead to the people Harry visited the previous week, cutting my waiting-in-lobbies time to a minimum. However, they didn't say anything the least bit suspicious. Their business with him had been straightforward, just about some new showroom furniture he intended to purchase, and they seemed genuinely shocked about his murder.

I struck pay dirt on my last stop. At least eventually. At the Commodore Plaza Hotel, the manager, a Mr. Clamper, who had hair so hard and stiff it could be a weapon, glanced at the business card I handed him and then told me Harry had checked out Friday, as scheduled, not Saturday. He got this information from a computer, but when I asked who had done the actual checking out, he frowned, and his face told me he didn't think he ought to give me that information. Nevertheless, he disappeared into a back room.

A young woman who identified herself as Wendy, the assistant manager, came out. She was young and slim, wore large, red-framed eyeglasses and didn't seem to know what I wanted. Apparently Clamper hadn't told her.

I held out one of the business cards Brad made up for me and intended to repeat my question when I had a flash of intuition. So I listened to that instead and put the card back in my purse.

"I'm Mrs. Harry Hammond," I told her. "My husband stayed in your hotel last week, and he's, er, disappeared." I'd done some acting in college plays, so I sounded distressed and on the verge of tears. I begged her to help me find out what happened to him.

Giving me a sympathetic look, she assured me she had no reason to doubt Harry took a taxi back to the airport on Friday to catch his flight to San Francisco. Since I knew he had not gone back on Friday, I asked to speak to the doorman who might have procured the taxi. He, too, was on duty, but even though I showed him Harry's picture, it didn't ring any bells with him. He said he couldn't remember one out of the dozens of people he ushered into cabs that day. It looked like a dead end.

Unwillingly, my mind digressed into another direction. I wondered if Harry really had a girlfriend, someone he spent the night with when he came to L.A., in spite of Amanda's assurances to the contrary.

Then I had another idea. Did he receive or make a telephone call that caused him to stay in town the extra day? Once more, Wendy took pity on me. Incoming calls couldn't be traced, but every outgoing call from his room showed up on a computer printout. I compared the numbers with the list Amanda had given Brad and hit the jackpot.

One of the numbers on the hotel list was different. After writing it down and thanking Wendy profusely, faking the possibility of more tears, I moved over to a comfortable chair in the lobby, pressed the ten digits on my cell phone, and waited.

"Mr. McDonald's office."

McDonald, McDonald. Where had I heard that name recently? My memory didn't cooperate.

"Is he in, please?"

"I'm sorry. He's out of town at the moment."

"When will he return?"

"On Friday. Would you like to leave a message?"

Thinking it wouldn't hurt to talk to the man later, even if I didn't know how he fit in, I said "yes" and gave her Brad's name and office phone number. And then I had another idea. "Oh, one more thing. Did Mr. Hammond visit Mr. McDonald last Friday afternoon at four o'clock? Or was it five?"

"May I ask who's calling, please?"

I hesitated. To say I was Mrs. Grant from Featherstone's would only confuse the poor girl. So I lied. "I'm Mr. Hammond's secretary. His calendar is such a mess." I inserted a little you-know-how-that-is laugh. "I can never read his handwriting."

"Just a minute." A pause. Then, "Five o'clock."

I thanked her and hung up. I felt a little ambivalent over my fiddling with the truth that way. I'd added another white lie to my growing list—getting to be just like Kinsey Millhone, the private eye in Sue Grafton's mysteries—and I hoped the end justified the means.

Yet, it wasn't until I relaxed on the plane flying back to SFO that I remembered where I'd heard McDonald's name. Carl Novotny had mentioned Kevin McDonald the day before. He was a rival jewelry store owner. Harry's former partner, whom he later, supposedly, hated. Why would he call him? And visit him? Did they argue, and had McDonald followed Harry back to San Francisco the next day and killed him? His secretary said he'd gone out of town. Maybe he was in the Bay Area right that minute. Suddenly I wished I'd asked her a lot more questions.

I pounded my fist on the armrest, frustrated at still being clueless with this interrogation stuff. Well, I'd ask the questions later. I had the number, so I could call back. Maybe I'd even return to Los Angeles. I wanted very much to see Kevin McDonald in person. Even if he was the person who killed Hammond. Actually, especially if he was.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Although it was almost seven by the time I returned to the office, Brad sat there in his chair, the bandaged foot propped on his desk, reading what appeared to be legal documents. He put them aside when he saw me and smiled. "You're back."

"Feeling better?" I asked.

"Amazing what six hours in bed plus some chicken soup can do for you."

"You're still pale, and I sincerely doubt sleep and soup were the miracle cure you tried."

"No. I visited Ziegler, reread everything in the Hammond file, and then came here to wait. I was worried about you."

I let that sink in for a moment, feeling a little smug, although I suspected his concern stemmed not so much for my well-being as that I'm a woman. Try as I might, I hadn't completely erased his peers' chauvinistic attitudes that had rubbed off on him, probably in the locker room after football games. He once joked that the real reason the captain always went down with his ship was the fear that, at the last minute, his wife would take the helm.

"I told you I'd be okay, and I found out something." I took my time coming in and sitting down in the facing chair, keeping him in suspense.

"Okay, what did you find out?"

"Remember Carl Novotny telling us about a man named McDonald?"

"What about him?"

"I discovered that, instead of flying home last Friday afternoon, Harry visited him."

"Aha!" He leaned forward across the desk. "What did they talk about?"

"McDonald wasn't there, so I don't know. I left a message with his secretary for him to call."

Looking disappointed, Brad leaned back in his chair again. Without more details, he apparently lost interest in the subject and merely nodded.

"Type up all your notes for me when you can. I left the recording of my talk with Ziegler on your desk, and you can do that one too. No rush, though. I think I'll do what the doctor suggested and take two more days off."

I rose from the chair and picked up my coat and purse again. After a disgusted sigh, I remembered what we'd been talking about and returned to my seat in front of the desk. At the moment, my curiosity was apparently greater than his.

"What did you learn from Ziegler? Is he still a suspect?"

Brad frowned. "I don't think so. He may be a greedy devil, but I don't think he has the nerve to kill people or have them killed. Or need to."

"Did he admit to trying to buy company stock from other employees?"

"Yes, and he's not a bit guilty over it either. It's not illegal or even necessarily immoral. That's why he didn't need to kill anyone."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, first of all, it seems to be an accepted fact in the company that Amanda would take charge in Hammond's place. He hates Amanda, so why kill the boss—?"

"—and bring about that which he most fears?" I finished.

"Right. Anyway, the point is, if this bozo wants to take over Hammond Jewelry, like Novotny suggested, he didn't need to bump off Hammond or Novotny to do it."

Nevertheless, I persisted. "But with Harry out of the way, it might be easier to persuade the widow to sell him her shares. You can't have a widow without a dead husband."

"I still say it doesn't make sense. Now killing Amanda would make sense. At least," he added hastily, "from his viewpoint."

"Is that why you spent so much time with her last week, to protect her?"

Brad looked a little embarrassed. "Who says I'm spending a lot of time with her? A lunch, a dinner, that's all."

A dinner? So he had been with her the previous evening. My speculative instincts were still in good working order. I forced my mind back to the present puzzle.

"If Ziegler didn't need to kill Harry for control of the company, why might he try to kill Amanda? Doesn't the same logic apply?"

"Sure. Unless he thought Amanda might fire him and convince Rose Hammond he couldn't be trusted."

"Since Rose doesn't trust Amanda, that seems improbable."

"I think things are moving that way. When I called Amanda today, she told me she's making Carl Novotny her executive assistant, putting him ahead of Ziegler."

I brightened. "Well then, that gives him a motive for trying to kill Novotny."

"But Novotny's attack occurred last night, and the announcement wasn't made until today. I've already checked that out." He anticipated my next question. "Amanda assures me no one knew in advance that she'd make that appointment."

I slumped down in my chair but didn't give up the idea. "Maybe Ziegler knew ahead of time anyway. Maybe—"

"Maybe he did, and maybe he didn't. The important thing right now is"—he stood up, dropped his pencil onto the pad, and looked at his watch—"I have a date."

I straightened. "With Amanda?"

He avoided my question with one of his own. "Are you ready? I'll walk you to your car."

He turned off the office lights. I locked the door, and together we headed for the elevator. Then I remembered the pouring rain outside and that I hadn't taken my raincoat with me that morning.

"Wait a minute. Why don't we go down the back way? The parking lot is closer, and we won't get drenched."

"What back way?"

"Through the art gallery. Parry Williams always leaves her back door unlocked."

"That's a stupid thing to do." Leaning on a cane, he bypassed the stairs, and we chose the elevator after all.

"I know," I said as we descended, "but whenever I see her, I forget to ask her why she does that. Anyway, only other building occupants can get to the back door, and who would steal that crazy stuff she calls art?"

Much as I liked Parry, I loathed most of the art she put in her gallery. She knew that, of course, because of my penchant for speaking my mind—even at inappropriate times (especially at inappropriate times)—having told her so long before. Since we preferred to remain friends, it was something we never discussed.

Spared having to trudge down the fire stairs for four floors, we landed at the ground level and then went through the back door into the gallery. It smelled like air freshener, no doubt to disguise the concrete odor that escaped from the stairway nearby. Next, accompanied by the tapping of Brad's cane, we wound our way through various dimly-lit rooms. Brad stopped for a moment in the sculpture room to rest, and the night lights made the weird metal and wooden things that passed for sculpture look even spookier. He asked if I knew where I was going.

"Of course. One more room and we'll be at her receiving doors." We reached them and went through. They locked automatically behind us, and I scampered across the parking lot to my car.

"Don't forget Harry's funeral is tomorrow," I called to Brad.

He waved. "I won't."

After Brad drove off, I sat behind the wheel, wondering what Amanda Dillon saw in my brother. Although well-preserved, perhaps by the chemical industry, perhaps a plastic surgeon, and undoubtedly a gym, she was probably older than Brad. On the other hand, I was older than Lamar Grant, my second husband, and it wasn't the difference in ages that caused our split. I looked for something else.

Pure sexual attraction? Brad was very good-looking, but not in the pretty-boy sense. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had a more rugged but younger Hugh Jackman quality. Amanda may have been brilliant at her job—everyone commented on how smart she was—but I knew Brad could compete in any intelligence contest.

Amanda was powerful and resourceful and conniving and… I stopped at bitchy and sighed. Brad would have to figure those things out for himself. If he was infatuated with her, I just hoped it wouldn't affect his judgment in pursuing the murder investigation.

I started the car and watched the windshield wipers swoosh across my view, wondering if it would rain again the next day. In films, it always rains at funerals. It was one of those absurd Hollywood clichés, like the hero finding a parking place in front of his building and a helicopter always exploding with a fireball the size of Alaska. Only in the movies does metal burn and fire produce no smoke.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I awoke Thursday morning to sunshine and blue skies. The grass and decking outside my bedroom window looked wet, however, so I assumed it had rained most of the night. I hadn't heard it, but I was born and spent the first years of my life in the Midwest, where I learned to sleep through thunder and lightning. So I had no difficulty ignoring mere raindrops on rooftops.

While I took my shower, a guilty feeling surfaced. Harry's briefcase still sat in the trunk of my car, and I needed to see Novotny and trade it for Brad's. I phoned Mills Hospital again and learned Carl Novotny had been discharged. Two things made that good news. First, apparently his injuries hadn't been too serious and I had worried needlessly, and second, I decided I could swing by his house to do the briefcase-swap on my way to the office.

Yet, when I dialed his home number, only his voicemail picked up. A call to his office proved equally fruitless. A recording told me he wouldn't be in until Monday and to leave a message. So he was still recuperating, but where?

Acting on the theory he was home but just not picking up the phone, I drove over and parked in front. A trip up the front walk, carefully navigating the treacherous steps, discouraged me, because I noticed two rolled-up newspapers decorating the lawn. I rang the doorbell anyway, lots of times. I could hear the chimes ding-donging away inside, but no one showed up to let me in.

A narrow strip of window on one side of the door gave a sliver view of the front hallway, and, feeling pretty bold by then, I pressed close to the glass. The front hall appeared normal. No bodies, dead or alive, no blood on the floor, nothing out of place. I tried the doorknob, but it wouldn't turn, and I still drew the line at breaking and entering. After our dinner Tuesday night and the silly, romantic images that flashed across my mind whenever I thought about Carl, I was more than a little upset that I couldn't find him. I worried that whoever had tried to "off" him then might have succeeded this time, and he lay in a pool of blood somewhere beyond my line of sight.

Finally, I persuaded my brain that he wouldn't let himself be attacked the same way again and went down the one step onto the lawn. I scooped up the papers and placed them behind an azalea bush. I considered it my good deed for the day and atonement for peeking in his window.

I drove to Brad's office building, unlocked the door, and turned on lights. Then I started the computer and typed up my notes from my quick trip to L.A. Since Brad still hadn't arrived, I called his apartment but got his voicemail. Obviously, it wasn't my day for reaching people, and I vented my frustration by hanging up the phone instead of leaving a message.

I waited another hour for Brad, during which time I finished typing the notes of my trip to L.A. I knew I should listen to the tapes of Brad's interview with John Ziegler and type those notes for the file, but by then it was after ten thirty. I itched to be active, so I decided to go sleuthing on my own. If Brad wasn't around to tell me not to, it was his own fault.

I looked at my list of names and crossed off five: Rose, Debra, Amanda, Ziegler, and Novotny. Not that I had, or could have, absolved any of those people of guilt, but at least they'd been interviewed. Of course, I leaned toward eliminating Carl. After all, he couldn't very well have hit himself over the head, and anyway, I liked him. I told myself I couldn't be attracted to anyone who had the capacity to kill someone else.

We had yet to see McDonald and Powell. Since I couldn't reach McDonald, I decided to interview Powell. Surely, an advance visit to get my reaction to the man would be helpful and not even remotely beyond my authority. A call to the jewelry store in the mall netted the information he'd gone to the television studio to make a commercial. Did I want to leave a message? No, I did not. I put a note on Brad's desk, locked up the office, and headed for the television station.

KDMG was not one of the large network stations. It was local and occupied a cinder-block building near the bay in either Belmont or Redwood City, depending on where the dividing line snaked through the flatlands that once held salt ponds.

Inside a dark entryway, a heavyset, muscular woman—who looked like she could arm wrestle gorillas—gave me a scowl and asked what I wanted. I mentioned James Powell and instinctively backed up a little, thinking that if I hadn't said the magic word, she might pick me up and throw me back out into the parking lot.

Instead, she got to her feet and led me down a narrow corridor. "Mr. Powell is taping now and will be out soon." She stopped at a door marked Greenroom and told me I could wait there. She opened the door, flipped on a harsh overhead fluorescent light, and hiked off.

Of course, I knew that greenroom was a title for the place people waited or prepared to go on stage and was rarely actually painted green, although once upon a time they may have been. That one was cinder-block gray, contained someone's discarded, sagging sofa, two directors' chairs with black canvas seats and, along one wall, a wide expanse of mirror above a counter littered with combs and brushes, various types of makeup, jars of cold cream, and a giant box of discount-store-brand tissues.

I sat in one of the chairs for about five minutes and then, feeling even more frustrated, decided not to wait, telling myself Powell might not come back to that room after his taping. I opened the door and looked down the corridor. Seeing no one, I left the greenroom and tippy-toed in the opposite direction from the gorilla wrestler.

The corridor turned right, and I soon found myself behind large black curtains. I heard noises on the other side, so I went through the opening into a large, high-ceilinged studio, two of whose corners contained little stage sets with tables and chairs. I also saw three large cameras mounted on rolling dollies, thick cables running all over the floor like boa constrictors, and two men in jeans and sport shirts, one working a camera.

My gaze leaped, however, to a brilliantly lighted sidewall with a blown-up photo of the interior of a jewelry store. In front of the photo stood a man I assumed to be Powell. He was dressed in an expensive business suit, pale blue shirt, and striped tie. His hair was wavy and as thick as a helmet, his smile full of white teeth, and he read lines with animation from a teleprompter fastened below the camera in front of him.

Had the photo behind him pictured rows of used cars, he would have seemed less out of place. Whereas Hammond Jewelers was the Tiffany of San Ricardo, with tasteful ads in slick magazines, Powell's store, judging by his spiel, was the Crazy Eddie of the jewelry discount chains.

Which is not to say the man didn't have a certain amount of charm. He was good-looking in a Nicolas Cage type of way, tall and broad-shouldered, and his eyes actually twinkled when he described the tremendous values his company offered the jewelry buyer.

While I waited for him to finish, I remembered that Powell was only an employee—manager of the store at Bay Meadows Mall—and Kevin McDonald owned it. According to Carl, after Hammond and McDonald split up, McDonald opened his own chain of stores in Los Angeles, but apparently he couldn't resist plunking one down right in Harry's backyard. Like little boys going, "nyaa, nyaa."

I stood in the darkened wings for a good fifteen minutes, no one bothering me, thinking Powell was making another commercial I'd mute if I ever saw it. I wasn't one of those people who put down television or swore they never watched, but I had to agree that ninety percent of the time, when the producers went for mediocrity, they nailed it.

On the other hand, the remaining ten percent was pretty good. One or two sitcoms, some PBS programs, the history channel, documentaries. Those were never at the top of the ratings lists, so I supposed we had to be grateful they were available at all.

Some of the bright lights switched off, and I realized the taping had ended. I shook myself out of my critical mood and donned my ersatz detective persona. Then, as Powell began to walk briskly in my direction, I stepped toward him.

"Mr. Powell, I'm Olivia Grant with Featherstone Detective Agency. May I have a few words with you?"

He kept on walking, only slightly slower, looking me over. "Do I know you?"

"No." As he left the studio, I followed close behind him, and in this fashion, we hurried down the corridor toward the front door.

"We're investigating the murder of Harry Hammond."

"That has nothing to do with me." He marched on and passed the greenroom without so much as slowing down, justifying my decision not to wait.

I persisted, following Powell out the front door. "You attended the banquet where someone killed him."

"Me and a hundred other people." He stopped just outside and pulled out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply. "The police asked me some questions, just like everyone else. I don't know anything about his murder." He pocketed his cigarette lighter and crossed the small parking lot, unlocking his car door with a "tweet-tweet."

I knew I had to get his attention before he climbed inside and drove off, so I raised my voice. "I happen to know you're having a relationship with someone who is involved."

It worked. He stopped and smiled at me. "Ms. Grant?"

I had to admire his remembering my name, considering how repeatedly he tried to ignore me.

I smiled back. "Yes?"

"Who told you such a thing?"

"I'm afraid I can't reveal my sources, but some people might think that gives you a reasonable motive for Hammond's murder."

He paused, but the smile stayed in place. I wondered if he was one of those people who could look happy while hearing that a tidal wave had just destroyed his Kona beach house.

"Ms. Grant, I believe your source is mistaken."

"Then you deny having an affair?"

"Absolutely. I also deny killing Hammond or even having a motive to kill him."

"But your relationship—"

"Is strictly business. And just because I happen to work for a rival jewelry company of Hammond's doesn't make me a suspect."

"No, but—" I didn't finish that sentence either.

"I'm very busy and don't have time for this. I am not involved with anyone connected with Hammond, except in the most superficial business sense." He exchanged his smile for a frown. "Do yourself a favor, and please don't bother me again."

While I watched him wheel his car, a gray Mercedes or maybe a BMW or Nissan—all the cars looked alike to me—out of the parking lot, I wondered about several things. First, did he realize I was recording him, or did he just not care? Actually, since I got so little information out of him, it hardly mattered.

Second, why would he say that he and Debra Hammond had a purely business relationship? He wasn't my type, but I didn't think it beyond the realm of possibility that Debra would find James Powell attractive. Okay, what if they didn't have anything romantic going on? My mind invented some different scenarios.

Did Debra plan to join Powell's company? Powell didn't own it, so that didn't make sense. Besides, why should she? She had a perfectly good job, which she seemed to enjoy. Did she and Powell plan to start their own jewelry company, a rival of both Hammond's and McDonald's, and give Daddy more competition? Hardly. Nevertheless, I wanted to talk to Debra again.

As I got into my own car—not a Mercedes but a Paid-For—I suddenly remembered I'd be seeing her in less than two hours at her father's funeral. For me, it was serendipity.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The service for Harry Hammond took place in one of those white frame buildings that tried hard to look like a nondenominational church but was really an upscale funeral home. At the far end of the assigned room, a large number of flower displays almost hid a closed casket, and I wondered if Harry really lay in there or if the coroner still had his body. An organist, hidden behind some ficus trees in the corner, played appropriately somber music, and then a minister, apparently a friend of Harry's, read verses from the Bible and spoke about death in general and Harry in particular. Finally, people got up and filed past Rose and Debra seated in the front row, murmuring condolences. I did the same.

I didn't like funerals and instructed my siblings not to have one for me. They're to send out announcements to anyone they think might be interested in learning of my demise, and that's it. What makes funerals even worse these days is those bright-eyed people who insist, "This isn't a sad occasion. This is a celebration of life!" Sorry, lady, but the honored guest isn't around anymore, and I, for one, am definitely sad about it.

The other part of my dislike stems from feeling inadequate at saying the right things to the bereaved and the, sometimes inappropriate, need to cry. In Harry's case, I had no difficulty summoning tears. I hadn't seen him in many years, but I remembered his dedication to building his company, how, when she was little, he loved to take Debra to the zoo, and how he enjoyed playing bridge with Stephen and me, even though he didn't concentrate on the game enough to win very often.

Afterward, I watched the brief ceremony at the cemetery, and then, like most of the people present, continued on to the Hammonds' house. Caterers in black-and-white uniforms stood behind the dining room table laden with food and, in the breakfast room where Rose and I had our conversation a few days before, two young women served coffee and tea from silver pots. I recognized a few people I'd been friends with before Stephen died, but most of the fifty-odd fellow mourners were strangers.

I decided almost immediately not to question Debra about her alleged affair with James Powell after all—at least not then and there—but I could observe and listen. Wasn't that what detectives did? Interpret attitudes and remarks in their quest for the truth? Besides, I once read an article about how to read body language, and I tried to put it to use.

However, before I could even begin, Carl Novotny approached me, and I felt butterflies dance in my midriff.

"Are you all right?" I asked him.

"Yes, I'm fine." He turned his head to show me a large bandage. "Except for this, of course." He smiled, took my free hand (the other held a cracker with something gooey on it), and then let go almost at once. "Do I have you to thank for saving my life?"

I spoke softly. "I didn't save your life. The paramedics did."

"They told me a woman called them, and for some reason, I thought of you."

I felt flattered by his admission and hoped I wouldn't blush. "We had forgotten to swap the briefcases before we left the restaurant, so I looked up your address and drove to your house."

"Thank God you did. They told me the attacker probably used the fireplace poker but made only a glancing blow. Maybe you came along just then and spoiled his aim."

The feelings I'd had that night washed over me again. Being on the scene, I might have had a close call myself, but perhaps I saved Carl's life. It was a heady feeling, and I wondered how real heroes handled it.

"Do you have any idea who could have done it? Have you talked to the police?"

"They questioned me, but I couldn't tell them much."

My plan to detect by observation and listening shifted into overdrive. Carl showed what I thought of as classic signs of a lie: eyes shifting, shoulders hunched, fingers curled. I asked myself why. Didn't he want the culprit brought to justice?

"Did you surprise a burglar? Did he break in? Did he take anything?"

"Yes and no. He broke in sometime earlier. I must have surprised him when I came home."

"Did you see him?"

"No. I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped inside. I walked through the living room, and suddenly, I felt this awful whack on my head, and I blacked out."

"Is anything missing?"

"Not that I can tell. He probably hadn't been there very long before I showed up. Then you came and scared him off."

Possible. Nevertheless, I still felt Carl knew more about the incident than he cared to reveal. I also knew that arguing with him might be pointless. If he wanted to hide something, let him, but I did issue a warning. "You should protect yourself, you know. Get a security system."

"I'm having one installed next week. Meantime, I'm not living at home right now."

That explained my not finding him there that morning. I felt relieved he'd moved out, but I still harbored some concern for him.

He changed the subject. "I have your, I mean Mr. Featherstone's, briefcase with me. Do you have Hammond's?"

"Yes, it's still in the trunk of my car. Do you want to get it now?"

"Please." He put his hand under my elbow and guided me toward the back door of the house, so I deposited my paper napkin and still mysterious-but-untasted cracker on the nearest end table and went with him. First, he went to his car and pulled out Brad's briefcase. Next, we trekked over to mine. All the while, Carl kept looking around, as if not wanting anyone to see us make the switch. No problem. It was growing dark and had turned very cold, so no one else had come outside.

I gave him Harry's briefcase. "Here, you can return it to Amanda now."

"I don't think she's here."

That surprised me and got me to thinking. I hadn't seen Amanda since the cemetery. Did her strained relationship with Rose cause her to skip the wake? While I thought about that, I put Brad's briefcase in the trunk of my car and locked it.

"I'm leaving now," Carl said. "The doctor says I shouldn't overdo things. Could we have dinner again tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" I tried to hide my pleasure in knowing he wanted to see me again. I had no plans for Friday night—or Saturday night, if anyone cared to know—but I paused anyway, as if mentally consulting my social calendar. Then I thought of all the notes I still had to type, plus a sudden reluctance to have him come to my house. If I trusted the man, I shouldn't have hesitated on that issue, but I did anyway.

"I have tons of work to do. Could you pick me up at the office?"

"How about seven?"

"Fine." He squeezed my hand before walking back to his car. I retreated to the warm house, then rescued my cracker and took a bite. The stuff on top seemed like cheese but with an aftertaste so hot I thought it should have a warning label: Do not eat this before operating heavy machinery. Living in California with its multi-million Latinos (and almost as many ethnic restaurants), you'd think I'd have developed a taste for spicy food by then, but I hadn't. I read somewhere that there's a syndrome for people, usually women, like me. We have a gene that registers certain foods as bitter. (No, Mother, I can't eat my spinach. I have this mutant gene.)

I deposited the remains of the cracker in a plastic-lined wastebasket and headed for the beverage bar where several long gulps of 7 Up eventually brought my tongue back to normal.

When I returned to the living room, I saw Brad and Amanda enter together. Why so late? Where had they been? I didn't like my conclusion but had no time to develop another theory because they headed straight for me.

"You remember Olivia, don't you?" he asked Amanda.

"Of course. How are you?"

Before I could answer, Brad said, "I'll get you something to drink," and walked off.

I looked over Amanda's tasteful black designer original, wishing I'd stuffed the dress I wore into the ragbag that morning.

I skipped any small talk. "May I offer my congratulations? Brad tells me you'll probably become the new president of Hammond Jewelry."

"Yes." Her short answer, said with a smile like a well-fed alligator, disturbed me, but I plunged on.

"I like to see women elevated to important positions."

She snapped out an answer. "That they deserve."

I waited for her to elaborate on that, but she didn't. Was she always so abrupt? I asked myself again why, aside from her looks, Brad spent so much time with her. The girls he dated in high school had more often been editors of the yearbook than beauty queens.

I filled in what seemed to me an awkward silence. "I hear you've promoted Carl Novotny to executive assistant. Making changes already?"

"Is he here?" Eyes narrowing, she looked around the room.

"He's gone now."

She looked past me, as if trying to find someone more interesting in the crowd, and I realized we were the same height, yet she somehow managed to seem taller. I sucked in my stomach and pulled my shoulders back, feeling like a thirteen-year-old whose mother had just reminded her to stand up straight.

"He's been with the firm a long time. He's earned the promotion."

"Terrible about what happened to him the other night though." I searched her face for signs of emotion of some kind. Guilt, fear, pity, anything. Saw none.

"Yes." Again the short answer.

I had decided to ask her if she still felt Rose might have killed her husband, but just then, Brad returned carrying a drink for each of us. He handed one to Amanda and then took my arm to lead me away, as if he didn't want me spending too much time talking to the woman. Like in case I wanted to know how come he seemed to know her beverage preferences without asking.

He walked and talked. "I want to point out John Ziegler to you."

Then I really suspected his motive. Why did he want me to see the vice president? He'd already questioned the man and didn't consider him responsible for Harry's murder. Nevertheless, I accompanied Brad anyway.

"That's Ziegler." He made a small gesture with the glass in his left hand. The man was in his fifties, tall and husky, with hair that was going gray and a mustache that wasn't. He didn't look especially like my idea of a middle-class businessman. He seemed nervous. Why? Because he knew who killed Hammond?

Brad had only said he wanted me to see Ziegler and then disappeared, but I thought a conversation might be in order, so I went up to him and introduced myself. "I'm Olivia Grant, friend of the family."

"John Ziegler, from the company. This is my wife." He turned slightly toward the woman next to him, a chubby blonde, and I shook hands with both of them. Then I just stayed there and waited for him to say something. People always wanted to fill up silences. Heaven knows, I was often guilty of that myself, but that time I wanted to get information, not give it, so I just waited him out.

"Terrible thing, isn't it?" His voice held a slight trace of the South. "The murder, I mean."

"Yes. I understand you were there."

"At the banquet? Yeah, we were all there. In the dinin' room, that is. Didn't see anything. Awful lot of commotion, and then they started questionin' us."

"And in the office? Is Mr. Hammond's death causing problems?"

He gave me a look that said it was none of my business, which, at least in his mind, was true, but I counted his attitude as a strike against him. He could have at least said "yes," even if he didn't elaborate on it. Then he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lit one, and I had one more reason to distrust him. With all the information out there about smoking, I figured people who did it were either careless about their own health or inconsiderate of others. Or did his grandpappy grow tobacco and hooked him as a young'un?

Nevertheless, I wanted to get back to Amanda. I backed away from Ziegler and found Brad again. "Where were you and Amanda before showing up here?"

"Nowhere. Don't be so suspicious." He took a long sip of his drink.

"Did you have to pressure her into coming?"

"Of course not."

"What's her relationship with Rose these days?"

"They're on speaking terms. Once, Rose might have suspected Hammond of having an affair with Amanda, but she's certainly not worried about that anymore."

"No," I muttered. "She has ten worse things to think about."

Brad drained his glass. "I'm going to mingle. See you later." He walked away.

Mingling, in detective's terms, I decided, was another word for investigating, so I put a smile on my face and went forth to pry.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I looked around for Amanda, but she had joined the Zieglers, which I thought rather strange, considering Carl had said Ziegler hated Amanda. But perhaps, I reasoned, she didn't know how he felt about her. I returned to the dining room, thinking a further snack might be a good idea and save me from having to fix dinner. I avoided anything that looked like spicy food and chose the soy-and-ginger chicken wings.

A large, bosomy woman next to me at the table glanced at my little paper plate. "Are those good?"

I took a bite, turned to her, and reported. "Very good."

"Olivia!" the woman said next. "I should have known you'd be here. You and Rose used to be best pals."

Then I recognized her face, if not her figure. "Charlene? Charlene Steelbrun?"

"Right." A smile pulled up the corners of her mouth for a moment, giving her chipmunk cheeks.

"Where've you been keeping yourself?" I asked.

"I got divorced and had to go to work. No more coffee klatching."

"Where do you work?" I thought bakery.

"I sell insurance."

"That's great, but I'm surprised you didn't call and try to sell me a policy."

"I thought of it, but I was too late. You were widowed by then."

"That made me ineligible?"

"For the kind I specialize in—husband insurance."

Puzzling that out, I put some raw carrots on my plate while Charlene added chicken wings to hers. "Did you sell insurance policies to all your old friends, the eligible ones, that is?"

"Of course."

Since we were at his house, I said, "To Harry Hammond?"

"No, to Rose, for Harry."

A carrot stick halfway to my mouth, I stopped and thought aloud. "You sold Rose an insurance policy on Harry's life?"

"Why not?"

"I'm surprised Rose would even know about such things."

"She didn't, at first." Charlene glanced around and then came closer to me and spoke in a quiet tone, as if about to spill classified information. "Listen, we gals have to do everything we can to survive, right?"

I nodded while I munched the carrot.

"What's the first thing the jerk does after the divorce? Takes the wife's name off his insurance policy, right?" She seemed to speak from sad experience. "So, I sell life insurance on the husband to the wife."

"How does that work?"

"As long as she pays the premiums herself—even if he gave her the money to put in the account—it belongs to her. Then, even if they get divorced, when he dies, she collects."

"I see. So you sold her this policy a long time ago."

"No, she didn't want it at first."

My suspicious mind didn't let go of the idea it had conjured up. "How much insurance can a woman buy from the piddly little amounts left over from the grocery budget?"

"You'd be surprised. Think a couple mil'."

I thought. I thought I should have been serving Hamburger Helper for dinner every night and socking the rest into term life in six figures.

"I thought you said Rose didn't buy a big policy from you."

"Sure she did. She called me about six months ago."

"Six months ago?" I realized my voice had risen an octave, and I lowered it. "Are you telling me Rose took out a big policy on her husband's life just six months before someone killed him?"

Charlene finished chewing and swallowed before answering. "Now, don't go getting any weird ideas. I admit the timing seems a little strange, but Rose and Harry had one of the few happy marriages in this town. If she thought he'd kick the bucket early, she'd blame it on all those martinis and filet mignon dinners. She didn't kill him."

I just stood there, mouth open, while Charlene went on heaping her paper plate with ham and turkey, Parker House rolls, and tuna salad in puff pastry. Then she reached out and plucked some more chicken wings to add to the pile. The third one slipped off, and in trying to catch it, her fingers slid off the surface, and it landed on her ample bosom.

"Oh, now look what I've done."

She set her plate down on the buffet table and swiped at her dress front with a paper napkin, tossing occasional comments on her sudden clumsiness in my direction.

I came to life and grabbed a few more of the little cocktail napkins and handed them to her.

"This won't do," she complained. "Where's the powder room?"

I started off toward the hall with her following me. When I opened the door, she charged in, turned on the faucet, and soaked one of the guest hand towels. Also paper, it disintegrated, leaving little white spitballs on her dark blue dress.

I confess I found this funny and then felt guilty for it, so I opened the door of the vanity under the sink and looked inside for something more substantial. I found some terry hand towels, but when I pulled one out and turned to hand it to her, I discovered Charlene had disappeared, presumably to the kitchen for expert help.

I stayed there temporarily, staring at my face in the mirror, although the image didn't register. I thought about what I'd just learned. In spite of Charlene's opinion, I had to wonder if Rose killed her husband after all. My appetite disappeared.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I stayed in the powder room for several minutes, pondering my next step. Tell Brad? Confront Rose? Maybe Charlene didn't think the insurance policy implicated Rose, but I felt certain Brad would. Maybe I shouldn't tell him what I'd learned. How could he work wholeheartedly on the case if he thought her guilty? And I just couldn't believe that. Yet, I felt duty bound to tell him.

I left the powder room and noticed the living room had emptied, and a small queue of guests stood in the hallway, saying their good-byes to Rose and Debra. I worried Brad might be gone but found him standing in the living room, looking at the spines of books on the shelves on either side of the fireplace.

I gave him my best I have something urgent to tell you look, and he followed me. I could hear the sounds of the caterers cleaning up back in the direction of the kitchen, but the breakfast room was unoccupied, so we stepped in there.

"What's up?" he asked.

I looked around once more, just to be sure no one could hear, and dropped my voice to a lower tone. "I just bumped into Charlene Steelbrun. I don't know if you remember her. We played bridge with a ladies' group when you were in junior high." I realized I was rattling, stopped, and got straight to the point. "Anyway, she sells insurance now, and she sold Rose Hammond a policy on Harry's life worth two million dollars."

Brad's eyes widened, and I went on. "Here's the worst part. She sold it to her only six months ago."

Brad's voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Are you sure about this? Six months ago she took out a life insurance policy on Harry?"

"For two million," I repeated.

"That's incredible. How come we didn't hear this before? If the police know about it, no wonder she's a suspect." He arched his head back for a moment, his jaw tight, gritting his teeth.

"Now, Brad, this does not make Rose guilty. You have to promise me you won't let it keep you from looking for the real murderer."

He didn't comment on that but asked a question of his own. "Have you said anything to anyone yet?"

"No, I thought I'd better tell you first."

"Right. And I'll have to tell Tom, but first, let's get Rose in here."

"She's saying good-bye to people. Everyone's leaving now. It shouldn't take long."

I left him in the breakfast room, hoping I'd done the right thing, and walked back to the front hall. Sure enough, the last mourners appeared to be heading home. I shivered a little, as much from fears for Rose as from the cold winter air blowing in through the open door.

As the final guests left, Rose turned toward Debra, her face relaxing into a look of sadness and despair. Debra put her arms around her mother, and they stood in that position for a few seconds. I felt guilty for eavesdropping and guilty as well as for wondering if Rose might have killed Harry after all.

I came forward, and since the thick carpeting muffled my footsteps, I cleared my throat loudly. The women broke apart, and once again, a mask of dignified courtesy covered Rose's face. Debra seemed more open, her look indicating her surprise at seeing us, which was natural under the circumstances.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," I told them. "Brad and I are still here. We need to talk to you."

By this time, Brad had returned from the breakfast room too and came up to us. Rose paused a moment and then suggested we'd be more comfortable in the living room. She led the way.

When we were all sitting, Rose and Debra side-by-side on the sofa, I in a wingback chair, and Brad on a straight side chair, he began. "I know this is a difficult time for you, and I'm sorry to have to bring it up now, but we've just learned about the insurance policy you bought on Harry's life."

Rose looked steadily at him, and my doubts left me. A five-year-old child couldn't have looked more innocent than she did that minute. However, the look lasted only a second, and then her mask fell into place again. She didn't comment.

Brad leaned forward and spoke directly to her. "An insurance policy, Mrs. Hammond, for two million dollars." He drew out the last words, giving them an ominous connotation.

Rose looked at her lap before speaking. She used a low tone. "That's not a large amount of money for a man in my husband's position."

"Granted."

Rose looked over at me. "A mutual friend, Charlene Steelbrun, took a job selling insurance, and several of us bought policies from her, to help out. We went to a luncheon. I think Mary—"

Brad interrupted. His voice sounded sympathetic, even though the words didn't. "Mrs. Hammond, we know you took out that policy only six months ago."

An awkward silence fell, which Debra filled at last, her tone crackling with hostility. "Are you implying my mother killed my father in order to collect from the insurance company?"

"No, but you have to admit, the timing is unfortunate." Brad's expression showed his regret at having to say it.

"My mother would never kill my father. Never! I hired you to find the real killer, not to try to throw more suspicion on her."

"I'm sure the police already have that information. Possibly, it's one of the reasons they suspect her."

Silence took over the room, and looks darted back and forth between Rose and Debra. Rose's face seemed to turn even more pale, and her eyes flashed quickly, imploring, to Brad.

He let a beat go by. "Why don't you tell me how you came to take out the insurance policy?"

Rose's gaze flicked over to me again before she began. "I know that looks odd, but…" She cleared her throat and started over. "As I told Olivia, our marriage had not been, well, normal for some time. I began to worry that Harry would want a divorce, and I remembered Charlene telling us about this policy, a sort of protection in case he removed me as beneficiary from his other insurance." She paused again. "But I didn't kill him."

I thought it was time one of us assured Rose we were on her side, so I spoke up. "Of course you didn't. We know that. We'll find the real murderer."

Brad flashed me a stern look, then got up and shook hands with Debra and Rose. "Okay, I'm going to talk to my friend on the police force, Tom Ortega, and maybe they'll question you again. In the meantime, I'll keep working on the case."

He turned toward the door, and I put out a hand to stop him. I thought we should ask Debra some questions about James Powell, but then I remembered I had yet to tell Brad about my interview with Powell. He wouldn't have the foggiest notion what I was talking about. So I just said, "I'll see you later," and he left.

Neither Rose nor Debra got up to see him to the door, so the three of us sat still, looking at one another for several long seconds. The click of the door latch acted as a signal, and we all spoke at once. We stopped at the same time too, and then Rose and Debra looked at me as if the ball had come into my court, so I began.

"Excuse me, Rose, but would you mind if I spoke privately with Debra for a few minutes?"

Rose looked over at her daughter without answering.

Debra said, "I have no secrets from my mother. You can say what you need to in front of her."

Still, I hesitated. During my teens and twenties, I had a few secrets from my mother, but young people today, like Brad and Samantha, had different standards. Perhaps Debra wouldn't mind admitting to her mother about having an affair with Powell.

"All right. First of all, I saw James Powell this morning." I paused, looking for some kind of reaction from Debra but saw none. I plunged on anyway. "I went to see him because we understood that the two of you were, er, involved with each other."

"That's not true."

Her denial came quickly and seemed genuine, but she could have been lying. Maybe she didn't tell her mother everything after all. I blamed myself for that stalemate. I should have insisted on speaking to her alone.

"Your friends are none of my business, of course, except that, if there is a relationship, it gives Powell a motive for the murder."

"I don't understand. I barely know the man. Did he tell you we were, er, intimate?"

"No, he didn't, but naturally people will lie if they're suspected of murder. I wanted to learn the truth from you."

"The truth is I am not having an affair with him."

"Do you have a business relationship with him?"

"No, why would I? I have my own career."

I smiled to let her know I believed her. She had told me what I wanted to hear, but I couldn't help thinking she still hid something. Yet, how could I find out? "Well," I finished lamely, "I'm happy to get that cleared up. You realize we have to check out every possible lead?"

Rose spoke up. "I don't understand. If they were having an affair, why would that make Mr. Powell a suspect in Harry's murder?"

"The theory is Harry knew about their affair, that he disapproved and he threatened to cut Debra out of his will. So Powell might have killed Harry before that could happen."

"It sounds very far-fetched to me," Rose said. "Why would Harry have disapproved?"

"Because Powell is the manager of a rival jewelry store, because he may not have liked him." I shrugged. "I don't know."

I glanced over at Debra again, and this time she looked less calm and controlled. Her face had turned pink, and she dropped her gaze to her lap, where she twisted a fancy ring around and around on the third finger of her right hand.

I didn't wear much jewelry. I knew that made me a strange kind of woman, but I never liked the stuff. Oh, I wore a wedding ring while married, and I still wore a wristwatch, but I gave up earrings, pins, and bracelets long before, considering them a nuisance and, at the least, uncomfortable. But that's just me. Besides, I'm squeamish. Perhaps it was because I couldn't stand to see blood or cuts on my own body. My schoolmates often told me I was old-fashioned. Maybe I was a throwback to an earlier era. It was my father's fault. He shouldn't have named me for my grandmother.

Nevertheless, since I possessed a smattering of ignorance on several subjects, even those I wasn't especially interested in, I recognized Debra's ring—almost as large as an ashtray—to be an emerald surrounded by diamonds. If all the stones were genuine, it might have cost someone as much as a condo on Maui. Had Powell, who, after all, managed a jewelry store, given her that ring? Had she lied? When I visited her Tuesday morning, I posed the question of her having an affair with someone her father disapproved of, and she denied it. Yet, at that time, I didn't mention a name. Now she denied having anything to do with Powell, but I still thought she was hiding something from me.

Rose stood up then, and I felt I had no alternative but to do the same, say good-bye, and leave.

As I drove away, I felt sad. It was as if I had built it, and they wouldn't come. I didn't know which upset me more: that Debra might have lied about Powell, or I had failed to ask the right questions. I wondered if I should have told Brad about Powell first and let him do the questioning. Then I pushed that notion aside. I was still learning. I'd do better next time. After all, I was Brad's sister. If he could be a clever detective, then so could I.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Since I hadn't needed to fix dinner, having eaten enough at the Hammonds', I returned to the office and worked some more on my notes. I'd had plenty of them before. At that point, I needed to add the conversation with Rose and Debra after Brad left us, plus my earlier talks with Powell and Novotny. I hadn't finished when Brad returned, however, so I left the reception desk and sat in one of his guest chairs to learn the latest from him.

"Did you tell Tom about the insurance policy?" I asked him.

"Yep, but he already knew about it. He said insurance policies are one of the first things they investigate in a murder case. He wouldn't tell me anything else about their progress. Since it's not his case, he's not up on everything anyway."

"Did he say they'll question Rose and Debra again?"

"No, but he did tell me one other very interesting thing. Someone broke into Carl Novotny's house last night."

My sharp intake of breath made a squeaky sound. "Again? First Tuesday night and then Wednesday? Did they take anything?"

"He won't know until they talk to Novotny, but the place looked a mess. Furniture overturned, drawers dumped, closets emptied."

"If Novotny wasn't there, how did the police find out?"

"Some neighbors heard a disturbance and called them."

"A disturbance? Then they were amateurs. Didn't you tell me professional thieves are so good nobody knows they're there?"

"Usually."

"Sounds as if they were looking for something."

"Yep. Maybe that briefcase."

"The briefcase? What makes you think anyone but Amanda has any interest in that? We looked inside. It held nothing but business papers."

"A hunch. Amanda offered me a lot of money to find it."

I scoffed. "The company could afford to pay you well."

"And Novotny gave a pretty lame excuse for why he didn't return it to Amanda on Monday morning."

"I thought his reason sounded plausible. Why is that suspicious?"

"I don't know. Like I said, it's just a hunch."

"Well, my hunch is that the briefcase isn't a bit important."

"Nevertheless, someone broke into his house for something."

"If that's what the burglar wanted, he didn't get it."

"How do you know?"

"Because I had the briefcase in my car until this afternoon. When I found Novotny lying on his living room floor Tuesday night, I completely forgot about it. I gave it to him at the Hammond house this afternoon after the funeral. Yours is back in its usual spot."

After he glanced toward its resting place next to his desk, I also filled him in on the rest of my conversation with Novotny. I eliminated mention of our upcoming date, however, and suggested he could read my notes for more details.

He opened the Hammond file folder on his desk and glanced at the printed sheets. "I don't see anything about that here."

"I haven't typed it up yet. I'll do it first thing tomorrow. It's past quitting time anyway." I made a hasty exit back to the other office and got ready to go home. Originally, working with Brad was necessary only about two days a week. Lately, I felt like the owner of a twenty-four-hour fast-food restaurant with no employees. I longed for a night of mindlessly watching the drapes fade. Hard work may reward you in the future, but being lazy rewards you at once.

Brad came out of his office and into mine before I could make my getaway. He held up my notes in his right hand, the folder in his other.

"Tell me more about Kevin McDonald. I think he's a possible suspect in the murder."

While Brad perched on the edge of the desk, I repeated my brief conversation with McDonald's secretary, stressing my ingenuity in getting her to reveal Harry had visited with him.

"But I didn't meet the man, so I can't make any judgments about him."

"She told you he's out of town, didn't she? What if that 'out of town' is here in San Francisco? What if he and Harry quarreled and McDonald followed him back here Saturday night and killed him?"

"That's exactly what I thought at first, but now I'm not so sure."

"Why not?"

"Suppose McDonald was in town Saturday? That doesn't make him guilty. We don't know what he looks like. Maybe he even came to the funeral." I frowned. "On the other hand, would a murderer attend the funeral of his victim?"

"Of course. Not to attend would look suspicious."

"They were business rivals. Perhaps no one would expect him to come."

Brad got to his feet and turned toward the window, shaking his head. "I wish I'd read these notes earlier. Then I could have looked for the guy." He put the papers back in the Hammond folder.

"I believe most people signed the guest book, so tomorrow I'll try to get hold of that," he said.

"Do the police know about McDonald?"

"Probably not. Like I said, Tom thinks they're not expanding the investigation until they check out everybody up here first."

"They'd better shake a leg."

"Shake a what?"

"Shake a leg. You know, hurry up." I paused and then enlightened him about my expression. "Our grandfather used to say that all the time. Anyway," I hurried on, "didn't they say that the first few days, even the first few hours, are critical in solving crimes?"

"Yeah, but I have no standing with the police force. I can't tell them to 'shake a leg.'" He glanced at his watch. "I thought you were going home."

I picked up my handbag. Then another thought came, and I voiced it out loud. "What did Hammond do after visiting McDonald? They met at five o'clock, but he could still have caught a late flight back to San Francisco. Instead, he waited until Saturday to come home. Where did he go Friday night, and why?"

Brad grinned. "I'm glad that finally occurred to you. You're catching on. When I talk to McDonald, I plan to ask him if he knows anything about Hammond's whereabouts that day. Your notes indicated McDonald's secretary said he'd be back in his office tomorrow. I'll call him then."

I said good night. He went back into his own office, and I headed for home. I, too, liked the idea of McDonald being our killer.

Then I thought about Novotny's house being ransacked and couldn't see McDonald doing that. True, I hadn't met the man, but I felt that the head of a large company wouldn't go around trashing people's homes. Not personally, anyway. Of course, he could have hired someone. On the other hand, I could imagine Powell doing that. Powell managed one of McDonald's stores, so perhaps they were in it together.

Still, I didn't like the idea of there being another person involved. This case already had too many suspects. Who did the police think broke into Novotny's house? He'd told me he wasn't staying there then, which explained why he didn't get himself bopped over the head again, and we didn't know what, if anything, had been stolen. I found it hard to believe the burglar wanted the contents of the briefcase. On the other hand, maybe the briefcase itself had a secret compartment. Brad and I hadn't looked for secret compartments or removable linings during the short time we examined it in the office.

I visualized that marvelous scene from the old James Bond movie, From Russia with Love, where Sean Connery lets the bad guy open his briefcase, knowing it would explode in his face. Still, if there was a secret to the briefcase, Brad and I didn't know about it. We had opened the case and didn't end up as human confetti sticking to the office ceiling.

I had no choice but to come to the conclusion that the incidents bore no relation to each other. The dots not only didn't meet, they didn't recognize each other. Someone wanted Harry dead for no other reason than to take over the company. That scenario made Ziegler or even the as-yet-to-be-interviewed McDonald look guilty, and I liked it. I smiled. Then I realized I had stopped at a light, and the man in the car on my left was smiling back at me. Whoops!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

On Friday morning, I finished typing the notes of my interviews with Powell and Debra the day before, and Brad read them over. Then the phone rang, Amanda calling, asking for Brad.

After a short conversation in which he seemed to be doing more listening than talking, he came into the reception area and said he'd be having lunch with her.

"As if I couldn't have figured that out." I winked at him. "What other times do you wear a suit and tie?"

"This is strictly business."

"You aren't still working for her now that she's got Harry's briefcase back, are you?"

"She says that when Novotny returned the briefcase this morning, it had no videotape in it."

"Is she certain?" I remembered seeing a VCR cartridge in the briefcase when Brad opened it, but I was sure I put it back.

"She also says she asked Novotny about it, but he denies seeing a tape."

Carl denied it? Strange. Oh well, in a few hours I'd be seeing him and could ask him about the tape then. Yet, I didn't want to tell that to Brad, even though he seemed to be getting involved with a suspect just as I was.

Brad continued. "You said that, before you returned the briefcase to Novotny, it spent a lot of time in the trunk of your car. Could anyone have removed the tape from it there?"

"I don't see how." I remembered something else. "Didn't Amanda say it contained pictures of jewelry? That doesn't sound very important, and you said the police didn't want to see it."

Brad looked puzzled, then spoke softly, as if talking to himself. "Come to think of it, I don't believe I told Tom about the videotape, only the file folders."

"You saw the tape, didn't you?"

"Yes, but now that I remember, you had placed it on the desk behind the open lid, and I didn't see it when I spoke to him." He frowned. "When I find it, I'll check it out, and if there's anything suspicious on it, I'll turn it in."

After he left the office, I wondered if Amanda asked Brad to find the videotape just so she could spend more time with him. The whole idea of there being something suspicious about the thing made no sense to me.

I had my own lunch in the coffee shop downstairs and grinned when I saw Parry come in. She said she'd already had lunch but wanted to talk to me.

"I saw an item on television last night about that Novotny fellow who found Harry Hammond's body."

"Where did you see it? It wasn't on the nightly news I saw."

"Oh, that local news station just loves to report crimes in the suburbs." She grinned.

"So what did they say about Novotny?"

"That his house was broken into, and he was struck over the head and ended up in the hospital overnight."

"Anything else?" I thought they'd surely have mentioned my role in the caper, although nobody from any TV station had called me or taken my picture.

"No, that was all."

So, it seemed I wasn't even going to get my fifteen minutes of fame. I debated telling her I'd had dinner with the man and, in fact, was about to do so again but decided Brad might not want me to say that. If Carl turned out to have nothing to do with the murder and if Carl and I ended up with something going on between us and if I needed to brag about it, I might say something to Parry. But not now.

I returned to the office promptly at one. I went through the mail, throwing out the junk—ninety-five percent of our mail quota—caught up on filing, and watered the plants.

Next, Kevin McDonald telephoned. He said he was in town and if I was Harry Hammond's secretary, he was returning my call. Caught in my lie, I hesitated a moment, then asked him to come to our office where I'd explain everything. When I hung up the phone, I called Brad's cell phone, but he didn't answer. Next I called Amanda's office, hoping to learn where she and Brad had gone for lunch but no luck.

At three, Brad still hadn't returned, but McDonald showed up. He was a tall, dark-haired, slender man who appeared to be in his early forties. That surprised me because I expected him to be older. He and Harry Hammond had once been partners in the jewelry business, so I'd assumed they'd been about the same age. McDonald was also extremely polite and soft-spoken, not a bit like his local manager, James Powell. I thought him better looking than Powell too—refined instead of flashy.

"Ms. Grant?" He stood still while he looked me over.

I jumped to my feet. "Yes. Thank you so much for coming. Mr. Featherstone isn't in his office just now, but if you don't mind waiting…" I waved my hand in the direction of the open connecting door.

He didn't move. "Why did you direct me to Mr. Featherstone's office? I thought you were Mr. Hammond's secretary. Then, when I telephoned, I discovered you're not Hammond's secretary after all. In addition, the directory downstairs says Featherstone does private investigations. What's this all about?"

"I assure you, if you'll just have a seat inside, all will be explained."

His voice acquired a stronger edge. "I've cooperated all I'm going to by coming here, and I don't intend to do or say anything else until you tell me what's going on."

I gave him my most ingratiating smile. "Mr. McDonald, you have every right to be upset, and I'm sorry about my little deception. I had to use a…er…a shortcut. If I'd given you my real affiliation, you might have been confused and not returned my call. I wanted very much to talk to you. It's terribly important."

He didn't answer, just looked annoyed but no longer angry, and he waited for me to continue my explanation. I wasn't sure he even knew Harry had been murdered, so I told him.

"Yes, I heard about that. Terrible thing."

"You may not know that Hammond's daughter, Debra, hired Mr. Featherstone to learn who killed her father."

"That explains part of it. Debra told me she hired a detective."

I continued. "As a result of tracing Hammond's whereabouts prior to the murder, we found he'd visited you in your office the previous Friday afternoon. What did you discuss?"

"Why should I answer your questions? If I made a statement, it would be to the police, but they haven't asked for one."

I barely heard his response because what he'd said before finally made connections in my brain. Debra told him? I put the thought aside temporarily. "Please come inside."

Again he stood his ground, although less belligerently. I hoped to raise him to the "willing cooperation" level, so I kept my voice calm and soft, sort of the way I cajoled Brad and Samantha into tasting foods they swore looked "icky."

"You're quite right. I can't require you to. We just thought you'd rather answer a few little questions from us than have to talk to the police. So far, at least, I don't think they've made any inquiries in Los Angeles, so they don't even know about you. Hammond's real secretary didn't know about your appointment."

That seemed to mollify him, and after thinking a bit and fingering his tie, he followed me into Brad's office, and we sat in the two chairs in front of the desk. I smiled a lot. "Thank you so much. This won't take long."

I wished Brad would return. His long lunches with Amanda were beginning to annoy me, but since he wasn't handy, I realized I should be recording McDonald's answers.

"Excuse me." I got up and retrieved the recorder from the desk drawer. "I need to get an exact record of our conversation." I set the machine down on the desk in front of us and pushed the record button. "I assure you, no one else will ever hear it."

He shrugged. "I suppose you could record me surreptitiously anyway, so go ahead. I didn't kill Hammond, and I have nothing to hide. I was in Los Angeles at the time anyway."

"Thanks, this won't take a minute." I hurried on before he could object. "First of all, we understand that you and Harry Hammond once worked together as partners."

"That's true."

"We also heard that you had a falling out and became, er, enemies. I'm sure you can imagine that we found it strange for Hammond to suddenly visit with you in Los Angeles. Can you tell me why?"

"I phoned and asked him to."

Curiouser and curiouser. "Before or after he caught his flight to the city?"

"Before. I told him I wanted to discuss something of a very personal nature."

"Personal?"

"My relationship with his daughter."

So that's where that came in. I began to get the picture. James Powell didn't interest Debra, but Kevin McDonald did. "I see. So naturally she confided in you that she hired Brad, er, Mr. Featherstone."

"Yes. We're in touch. We're going to be married as soon as my divorce is final. In the meantime, we didn't want anyone to know, especially my ex-wife. She's demanding a horrific amount of alimony anyway, without adding jealousy compensation."

"Nevertheless, you wanted to tell Harry."

"Yes. Rumors were going around—I don't know how they got started—so I decided to come clean with him and ask him to keep it quiet."

"What about the problems you two had in the past? Didn't he object to your relationship with Debra?"

"At first, yes, but remember, our business breakup took place a long time ago. I was young and foolish and said some things I later regretted." He looked down at his hands for a moment. They were tan, as if he spent time outdoors or in a tanning salon. I voted for outdoors, probably tennis.

He looked up again. "The fact is, we both did very well after the split, so I had no reason for hard feelings. I discovered he felt the same way."

I wanted to play devil's advocate but knew I had to do it carefully. "I see. Good news, wasn't it? On the other hand, since Hammond isn't alive now, I'm just wondering if the police might find that difficult to verify."

"You mean they'd suspect me of killing him just because we had a falling out many years ago?"

"It's possible. You know, I'm sure, that sometimes they can be very, er, overzealous in their approach." I paused to give him time to remember any other too-hasty-police-officer situations he read about in the papers.

He leaned back in his chair. "I should think I'd need a better motive than that. Years have gone by since our split. Why would I wait until now to kill him?"

I shrugged to indicate my own bafflement at the ways of officialdom. "Well, just for the sake of argument, suppose they think that if Hammond could talk, he might deny that you and he came to a friendly conclusion, that instead he demanded you stop seeing his daughter."

"Debra's over the age of consent. Furthermore, let's be realistic. Fathers haven't had control over their children since the turn of the century—the nineteenth century."

"I know it sounds foolish," I continued, "but suppose, just suppose, he told her to stop seeing you or he'd cut her out of his will. So—I know this sounds ridiculous, but bear with me, the police might just leap to these conclusions—you followed him back here and killed him."

The look on McDonald's face said he found such a story preposterous. "Why on earth would I do that? I can support Debra in the style she's accustomed to, even if I have to give my ex-wife enough money for a villa in Spain."

Hands gesturing, he got up and paced the floor. "Furthermore, I'd never kill Hammond or anyone else." He stopped pacing and looked at me. "Do I look like a killer to you?"

"Of course not." He not only didn't look like a killer, but I could see why Debra would be attracted to him. If he were a few years older and not already spoken for, I'd consider making a play for him myself. That is, if Carl Novotny decided I was not his type. And, oh yes, provided he hadn't killed Harry.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Naturally," I told McDonald, "Mr. Featherstone and I don't need any convincing of your innocence."

The outer door opened at that point, and in less than a minute, Brad came striding into his office. He halted and glanced at us, puzzled and embarrassed, looking as guilty as a four-year-old denying he ate all the ice cream. Only this time I figured he and Amanda had been indulging in something a lot hotter.

"This is Kevin McDonald," I told him, and the men shook hands. Then Brad regained his equanimity, shrugged out of his suit coat, and tugged at his already loose tie. McDonald returned to his chair, and I reported what our guest had told me so far.

After listening to my recital, Brad pulled out his usual yellow pad and grabbed a pencil, which he then tapped on the desk a few times before speaking.

"Thanks so much for coming in," he told McDonald. "We appreciate it. Do you mind if I ask you about last Saturday night?"

"You mean the night Hammond was killed? No, I don't mind. I had dinner with friends in Pasadena." Before Brad could ask for them, he recited a name and address, which Brad wrote on his pad.

"Thanks. Since you and Debra are…I mean, I hope you're willing to help us find out who killed her father. We'd be very grateful if you can fill in any blanks for us."

McDonald straightened in the chair. "Of course, I want to help all I can."

"Did you and Hammond discuss anything other than your relationship with Debra last Friday afternoon?"

"No, nothing else. Our conversation didn't last more than half an hour. We parted friends."

"Did Hammond say where he was going when he left you? He didn't catch his flight back to San Francisco that night. In fact, he didn't return until Saturday evening. We'd like to know where he went."

"I'm afraid I can't help you there. I don't know where he went after he left me."

"He said nothing about it?"

"Not that I recall."

A possibility crossed my mind, and I spoke up. "Could he have said anything to your secretary?"

He shrugged, and his mouth made that little line that means he thought I'd asked a dumb question, but what the heck, he'd humor me. "I can call her and ask, if you like."

I felt sure Brad would tell him not to bother, so I headed that off by pushing the telephone in front of McDonald and saying, "If you would, please."

He punched in some numbers, waited a while, and finally spoke to his secretary. "When Harry Hammond came to my office last Friday afternoon, did he say anything to you?" Pause. "Anything when he left?" A longer pause. "Yes?"

I leaned forward in my chair, my scalp tingling in anticipation. My burgeoning detective's intuition had paid off. The secretary knew something.

The pause grew still longer, and putting one hand over the mouthpiece, McDonald looked up. "She says he used his cell phone to make a call from her office."

My spirits rose, my curiosity soaring like a child's runaway balloon. "May I speak to her?"

McDonald handed over the phone, and I introduced myself. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but we need to know who Mr. Hammond talked to. I know you didn't eavesdrop," I added hastily, "but did you by any chance hear the name of the person or his firm? This is literally a matter of life and death."

I saw Brad tilt his face toward the ceiling with a good-grief look. "Because Mr. Hammond was murdered the next day."

The young woman spoke in a serious voice. "As you say, I didn't intentionally listen in, but I did hear him mention a hotel. The Ventura."

I sighed. Hundreds of people stayed in a hotel on any given day. "Did he dial the hotel? Did you hear him ask for anyone by name?"

"I wanted to give him some privacy, so I took some papers over to the filing cabinet."

Just our luck, the woman had ethics. "Did Mr. Hammond write down anything while he spoke on the telephone? Did he ask for a piece of paper or use one of his own?"

"Like I said, I didn't watch him."

Frustration nagged at me, so I was reduced to grasping at straws. "Could he have written something anywhere?" Brad's desk calendar lay in my line of sight. "On your calendar?"

"Oh, I don't think so." Silence while she apparently flipped the pages of her own desk calendar. "You're right. He did scribble on it. The writing looks like, er, 'Epstein.' And an address."

"That's fantastic. May I have it, please?" I grabbed one of Brad's pencils and copied it onto the edge of his yellow pad. "You're sure it's Epstein?"

McDonald echoed me. "Epstein? Do you mean the New York Epstein?" He reached for the receiver, which I handed over, and repeated the question to his secretary. "Anything else? Thanks, you've been very helpful. I'll be back in the office Monday morning."

When he hung up the phone, he had a puzzled look on his face. "Epstein is my diamond dealer in New York. I saw him just the day before. He told me he was visiting all his West Coast clients."

Brad spoke up. "Both you and Hammond own jewelry companies. Apparently Hammond got his diamonds from the same dealer. But how did Epstein know Hammond was in Los Angeles? Why not visit him in San Francisco?"

"I think that's my doing. He told me he'd be flying up here, and I said Hammond had come to L.A., in case that might save him a trip."

Brad frowned. I could imagine he wondered why McDonald hadn't told us this before, but he didn't voice it.

McDonald apparently caught on to it anyway. "I'm sorry I didn't mention that earlier. I forgot. Actually, it still doesn't seem very important, only a routine visit to valued customers. Unless—"

"Unless what?" I prompted.

McDonald looked at me again. "Unless he had a problem." He rubbed his chin, pursed his lips, looked back at Brad, and then continued. "You see, Epstein didn't come to see me just to say thanks for the business. He wanted to discuss my appointing someone else to purchase diamonds."

"Why? Who's been doing that?" Brad asked.

"James Powell. Epstein said he found him to be, uh, difficult to deal with, that he argued about prices, wanted extra discounts."

I met Powell only once, but I could imagine him to be the kind of person who demanded special privileges. In addition, something in his disposition made me think he might be nasty if he didn't get them.

"Did you agree to appoint someone else?" Brad asked.

"Yes."

"Have you spoken to Powell about this yet?"

"No. One of the reasons I'm here in San Francisco is to talk to him. I told him I'd be here, but he didn't show up for our meeting." He rubbed his chin again. "But I suppose Epstein might have wanted to see Hammond for the same reason."

"You mean a diamond buyer he didn't like?" I asked.

"Yes."

I turned to Brad. "Do we know who bought Hammond's diamonds?"

He shook his head. "The subject hasn't come up." He didn't say it out loud, but I figured both of us thought the same thing. Amanda.

He pushed the yellow pad toward McDonald. "Would you mind giving me the name and address of Epstein's company in New York?"

"Not at all." He picked up the pencil and wrote on the pad.

Brad rose from his chair. "Thanks again for coming in. And, in the meantime, if you think of anything else that we should know about, please call." He handed him a business card.

McDonald stood up to leave. "As I told Mrs. Grant here, I hope my relationship with Debra Hammond will be kept confidential."

"Of course." The men shook hands again, and I followed McDonald to the outer office, where we shook hands too, and he left.

Then I sprinted back into Brad's office and plopped into the chair again. "What do you think?"

Brad turned off the recorder and handed it to me. "I think we're getting answers at last. I think Epstein came to California, not just to glad hand customers but to solve some problems. McDonald for one, Hammond for another."

"James Powell certainly didn't buy diamonds for Harry's company too. We don't know for sure, but if I had to guess at someone, it would be Amanda."

"I imagine you're right, but who would object to her?"

I spoke under my breath. "Probably no man who still has a pulse." Louder, I said, "We can ask Amanda if she bought them, but how do we find out if Epstein had a problem with that?"

"Unfortunately, we can't call him now. It's well past business hours in New York."

I pointed the pencil at what I'd written down. "We have an address in Los Angeles where Harry supposedly met him. Maybe it's another jewelry store or even a private residence. Or maybe he's still at the hotel."

"We can find out if he's still registered, but if not, it means waiting until Monday morning."

"Or I could fly back to Los Angeles, go to this address, and see if he's there. Or if whoever is there knows anything."

"That's such a long shot," Brad said. "Epstein saw Hammond an entire week ago. Why would he hang around?"

"Perhaps he has lots of customers in southern California. It might take a week to visit all of them, even to say 'hello.'" I couldn't resist adding, "Or else he's going to Disneyland."

Brad gave me the frown I expected, then relaxed. "Okay, go ahead. Actually, I'd fly down myself, but I've got another job, a new client."

"You have?" A new client was good news. More bills would get paid. Besides, private investigators always liked having more than one case to work on at a time. Brad often said it was more efficient. If you had to wait for a day or so to question people, the time got filled in with the second case.

Then I remembered that I hadn't seen any notes about another client. "How come you didn't tell me before? Did one of the secretaries you had for five minutes lately make a file for you?" And probably misplaced it.

"All I have are names and numbers. A missing child case. The father called me Wednesday, and I want to get on it quickly, before the mother takes the kid out of the state."

"What about Rose Hammond?"

"I won't neglect her. She hasn't been arrested yet, so she's in no danger. And if you don't come up with anything in L.A. tomorrow, we can't find out what Hammond and Epstein talked about until Monday morning anyway."

"What about Amanda? You haven't told me what the two of you talked about over your three-hour lunch. Are you supposed to be out looking for the missing videotape?"

Brad looked puzzled again. "No. She's taking our word that we put it back in the briefcase before giving it to Novotny. It's him she doesn't trust."

I frowned. "I thought she just appointed him her executive assistant. Why would she do that if she doesn't trust him?"

"Amanda didn't say she doesn't trust Novotny. I figured that out myself. Something strange is going on there. The more I talk to Amanda, the more I'm sure of it."

I waited for him to continue, but he only swiveled around in his chair, staring out the window and biting his thumbnail. I shrugged and went back into the other office where I called the Ventura Hotel and learned Epstein had checked out.

I wanted to go to L.A. anyway. My intuition, which had been right earlier, kept telling me I'd discover something, and that night I'd see what more I could learn from Carl Novotny.

Brad came into my office. "Are you ready to leave? It's almost seven. I'll escort you to your car."

Almost seven? Carl would be picking me up any moment, and I didn't want Brad to see him. "No, I've got to enter some more of these notes. With both of us working on it, this case is generating more paperwork than the Congressional Record. You go on ahead. I'll be okay."

My fib almost worked. Brad reached the door, hand on the knob, when it suddenly opened, and Carl stood there.

Brad quickly hid his surprise. "Mr. Novotny. I'm glad to see you're recovered from the attack you suffered the other night. Is there something you wanted to see me about?"

Carl looked over at me. I glanced up from my task of shoving papers off my desk to smile back at him. "Actually, I'm here to see Mrs. Grant. I've invited her to dinner, and she accepted."

Brad looked as if someone told him I'd signed up for skydiving lessons. After a longish pause, he said, "Oh, that's nice." He turned his face away from Novotny long enough to give me an eyebrows-up look, but I didn't react to it.

"I'll call you in the morning." I snatched my jacket off the rack. "Don't forget to lock the door."

Carl said good night, and we went out, leaving Brad looking frustrated. I knew I'd be subjected to the third degree soon. Meanwhile, however, Brad hadn't denied me permission to try to learn more in L.A.

CHAPTER TWENTY

As soon as we went through the front door of the building, Carl took my arm and led me to where his car—a convertible with its top up—waited. Then, he suddenly put his arms around me and kissed me.

Surprised would be an understatement. I couldn't move or speak for some seconds. My face felt hot, and my mouth got dry. The kiss was firm, not tentative, but not a lingering one. Bang, he'd kissed me, as if he'd made a decision that didn't involve input on my part. Then he opened the car door.

"Wait a minute," I said. "What's that all about?"

"I just wanted to kiss you. You look very nice tonight."

"I've been working all day, and I probably look tired, and my hair needs combing."

"Perhaps nice is the wrong word. How about fabulous?"

I laughed, relaxed, and got into the car. He went around to the driver's side.

He drove out of the parking lot. "This place is a lot like TGI Fridays—incredibly loud, but the food is good, and they have a diverse menu. Some other time I'll take you to Ernie's or the Sheraton Palace, but as long as I'm paying for two places to live, I'm doing a little economizing."

"Whatever you choose is fine. I'm not dressed for Ernie's or the Palace anyway." Actually, I didn't know if any place respected dress codes anymore. I'd seen people attend the opera wearing jeans. Yet, I had dressed hurriedly that morning. Men may be occasionally obtuse, but they're smart about their clothes. They all wear the same stuff. Including not having any shirts that button up the back.

He took one hand off the wheel to touch mine in what I took to be a kind of thanks-for-understanding gesture.

The restaurant, a one-story wooden structure with mullioned windows, boasted antique signs, memorabilia from the ancient eighties (1980s) on the walls, and loops of colorful cloth draping the ceiling. A waiter led us to a table near the bar, but Carl declined to be seated there.

"Too noisy," he told the young man. "We want to sit in the other room."

"I don't have a spare table."

"Yes, you do. I can see one from here." He smiled and walked toward the opening to the adjoining room, and the waiter had no choice but to accompany us.

"It's not clear," he whined.

"That's okay. Have someone clear it."

We reached the table Carl wanted, in a booth against the windows, and sat in front of empty coffee cups and plates of unappetizing leftovers. Within a few seconds, a busboy appeared and swept it all away. Then the waiter dropped menus the size of picket signs in front of us.

When we were alone again, Carl grinned. "That's better."

He impressed me with his assertive attitude. First the kiss, then no-nonsense about the table of his choice. I shrugged out of my suede jacket, straightened my blue, V-neck cashmere sweater that I'd bought in Canada at a time when our dollar enjoyed a favorable exchange rate, and devoted myself to scanning the nine pages of dinner choices and enjoying the food odors. I decided on minestrone and quiche lorraine. Carl ordered the same, plus wine, which didn't hurt my growing approval of him.

Nevertheless, duty called. "I have three questions for you," I said as soon as the waiter took our orders and disappeared.

"Not more questions," Carl said. "Why don't I just confess to the murder, and then you can close your investigation and stop pestering people." He smiled while he said it.

I gave him my disgusted, come on, you don't expect me to buy that look. He'd have to provide a lot of wrong answers before I'd presume guilt. "First of all, I understand burglars made a stop at your house. I think 'tossed' is the word for it."

He took a long drink of water first and swallowed. "Roger."

"When did it happen?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe the same night they carted me off to the hospital but more likely Wednesday. I discovered it Thursday morning and called the police. That's when I found out some neighbors had already called them."

"Did the burglars take anything?"

"Nothing that I'm aware of, but between my soon-to-be ex-wife and my insurance company, I had to make a police report. They just messed up the place a lot."

"You have a very nice house, filled—I have no doubt—with things burglars normally take like televisions, stereos, maybe a computer in an upstairs office. Even if your wife took all her jewelry, furs, and the family silver when she left, there must have been something of value they went to all that trouble to try to steal. Or were they looking for something specific?"

He leaned across the table toward me. "I know it sounds bizarre, but I think it was just a coincidence and has nothing whatever to do with Hammond's murder."

I gave him a skeptical look.

"Coincidence does happen, you know." He paused. "Some months ago, I heard rumors that a drug dealer lived on our block. With Doris gone, I haven't been supplied with updates lately, but it makes sense to me that some crackhead—or another dealer—wanted to get his hands on junk or the cash that stuff produces and mistook my house for the dealer's."

I didn't comment, so he went on. "Personally, I lean toward the crackhead theory. Those people get desperate and take enormous risks to satisfy their habits. But, since I didn't have crack or money in the house, they came up empty."

"Surely they could have taken your electronics and sold them for cash."

"Maybe, like the time before, they were disturbed by something in the middle of the robbery and ran off before they could do that."

Our soup arrived, which gave me time to think about what he'd just said. He could be right. That explained the amateur nature of the break-in. However, it took a rather large leap of faith to believe him.

"Question number two," I said.

He interrupted. "Wait a minute. You don't get to ask all the questions. Now it's my turn. I think you and Featherstone are concentrating too much on me. Just because I found Hammond's body doesn't make me guilty. You're trying to get information."

"But, don't forget," I protested. "I didn't ask you to dinner. You asked me. Both times."

"But did you agree to come for that reason or because I'm incredibly handsome and debonair?"

I laughed, as he expected me to. "You got it. I confess."

He grinned. "Okay, so, since I'm not a suspect, who else are you investigating: the wife, the daughter, John Ziegler?"

"We're working for Mrs. Hammond, so we don't suspect her."

He consumed some of his soup before responding. "I suppose it doesn't make sense that she'd hire you if she were guilty. Although it's still not beyond the range of probability. What about the others?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss our investigation."

"Oh, you can ask me questions, but you won't answer mine."

"Ask something else," I offered.

"Okay. Could you be interested in a man you haven't known very long and is a possible suspect in a murder?"

For the second time that night and for the same reason, I flushed.

He didn't wait for my answer. "Of course, as I explained to you before, I'm not guilty of Harry Hammond's murder, so you can forget about that."

"My turn again." I was desperate to change the subject. "Getting back to the break-in. On the assumption there's no crack dealer on your block whose customers get the houses confused, it still sounds to me like your choosy burglar has something to do with the murder. Could he have been looking for a videotape? Amanda says when you returned the briefcase to her, the tape had disappeared. Brad's trying to find it."

"She asked me about it, but the tape was in the case when I returned it."

"She told Brad you denied ever seeing one."

He looked thoughtful, frowning. "I can't imagine why she'd say that. I never denied I saw the tape, and I put it back."

The waiter appeared, bringing our quiche, but I didn't begin to eat. I waited for a more convincing explanation.

"Actually, I never returned the briefcase directly to Amanda. I left it in her office. Perhaps someone else opened it and took out the tape."

"Why would they do that?"

"How should I know? Did she say what was on the tape?"

"When Brad first telephoned and questioned her about it, she said it showed jewelry of various kinds."

"So somebody needed it for some reason. I don't see what she's all excited about. It was an old VHS tape anyway." He ate some quiche, and we were both silent for a while.

Finally, he put down his fork and returned to the subject. "Probably Amanda just hired Brad to find it in order to keep seeing him. My secretary says word's going around the office that they're seeing a lot of one another."

Since that mirrored my own opinion of the situation, I didn't contradict him, but I reminded him of something he'd said on Tuesday. "You told me the other night that she might have a boyfriend outside the firm."

"I thought so, but perhaps I was mistaken. Even if she did, your brother isn't bad looking. I can see she might be attracted to him and dump the other guy."

"Maybe. Okay," I took a sip of my wine. "Final question. No, it's not a question. It's a comment. Congratulations. I heard Amanda officially made you her executive assistant."

He smiled, then looked serious. "Of course, the board of directors has to approve her being made president, but I think that's just a formality. So thanks."

"I probably shouldn't tell you this, but Brad thinks Amanda doesn't trust you. If that's true, why would she promote you?"

He looked surprised at the question. "Did she say she doesn't trust me?"

"No, Brad's just guessing, but his detecting skills are very good."

"Well, he's off base this time. I told you that I'm one of the few people in the office who gets along with her—one who doesn't resent an attractive woman holding such a responsible position."

I agreed with Carl. I had already begun to doubt Brad's objectivity in the case. He could be letting his infatuation with Amanda influence his judgment.

Carl broke the brief silence. "Now can we talk about us?"

I found myself jerked out of my speculation. "Us? Why talk about us? We're just, uh, friends."

He laughed—a laugh I interpreted to mean he intended to change my opinion. I didn't disabuse him of the idea. I smiled back, knowing interest, not the quiche, caused the tingling in my midriff.

As if willing to wait for a more appropriate moment to continue, he changed the subject. He talked about his plans for the firm, new marketing strategies, advertising, endorsements, and so forth. He also mentioned his background: how his father moved to the US, made a lot of money in the wholesale plumbing business, and retired to Florida in his forties. A year later, much to his parents' surprise, Carl was conceived.

I listened, but I couldn't help noticing the way his hair waved in front and the tiny dark spot, like a freckle, just to the left of his mouth. He had nice lips, not too full, not too thin. I wished I could remember how they felt when he kissed me earlier.

When the waiter came to suggest coffee and dessert, Carl declined for both of us. I didn't object, since I figured the decibel level in that place had reached the unsafe range.

Carl leaned across the table. "I'm staying at the Residence Inn next door, and we can have coffee in my bungalow. I'd like to continue our conversation."

So maybe he didn't choose that particular restaurant to save money. Did he want to confide in me, or had sex reared its head?

His suite consisted of a living room, bedroom, bath, kitchenette, and a small table for dining doubled as a desk. I sat on the sofa that served as a divider between the living room and dining/office area, and when he took away my coffee cup, he leaned over the back of the sofa and kissed me again.

This time he made it a lingering kiss, and for some reason I can't explain, my hand went up and stroked the back of his neck. Then he joined me on the sofa, and we kissed like tomorrow had been repealed.

I hated to admit it, but just like some sixteen-year-old, I suddenly began to have second thoughts. Brad would be so angry if I did what my traitorous body was longing to do and went to bed with one of our suspects. Sure, Carl had explained how he found Harry's body and that he hadn't killed him, and I believed him. But what if I was wrong and my infatuation with Carl affected my judgment? I so didn't want to go to bed with a murderer.

"Oops." I pulled away. "It's getting late. I'd better go."

"It's not even ten." He caught my hand on my way to the door, pulled me back, and put his arms around me.

"But I have to catch an early flight to Los Angeles tomorrow." He kissed me again, and that time I almost weakened.

"If you're sure you must." He opened the door, and I stepped out. Gentleman that he was, Carl drove me back to the office, where I'd left my car, and waited until I was safely inside.

"I can't thank you enough," I said. Then I paused ten seconds. "Well, actually I could, but you probably have plans for the rest of your life."

He gave me a strange open-mouth look, and then, suddenly realizing it was a joke, broke into a smile.

I drove away, mentally kicking myself all the way home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I lay awake a long time, replaying the scene with Carl but with a different ending, then dropped off at last. I overslept and made a mad dash to the airport the next morning. Thank goodness I didn't have to compete with rush-hour commuters between my house and SFO.

Once more, I hailed a taxi at LAX and let someone else do the driving. The traffic on that Saturday seemed lighter than it had been the last time I'd come, but that's only relative. Compared to driving around San Ricardo, it resembled a not-very-well-organized stock car race. I used the time, as I had while flying south, to relive my action of the previous night. I decided I had foolishly let my maturity get in the way of a possibly meaningful relationship. I vowed not to make that mistake again if the opportunity reappeared. Somehow, I had a suspicion it would.

I also worried about the ethics of getting involved with a man suspected of murder. I didn't think Carl had committed the crime. My instincts were sufficiently sharp, I hoped, to keep me from falling for a killer. Brad might not understand if I let things go that far, but my love life didn't concern him.

I directed the taxi driver to take me to the address Hammond had jotted down on the secretary's desk calendar, and as I suspected, he stopped in front of a jewelry store on a busy street. Not Rodeo Drive but posh enough. I paid the driver and entered the shop.

Three couples, their backs to the door, peered into the glass cases in front of them or gazed at jewelry displayed on black velvet pads. Each couple had a salesclerk in front of them, with no one left over to help me. I moved off to the side of the room to wait, but a young woman, who wore a tailored black suit and no jewelry at all, appeared like magic from a partition and offered to be of assistance. I asked if she was the manager.

"No, but I'll get him for you."

She retreated behind the partition again, and soon a short chubby man with a fringe of gray-black hair appeared and came over to me. "I am Philip Leibowitz. How may I help you?"

I handed him one of the cards Brad had made for me. "My name is Olivia Grant, and I'm with the Featherstone Detective Agency, which is currently investigating the murder of Harry Hammond."

Mr. Leibowitz's eyebrows rose at the word "murder."

"I understand he visited you a week ago."

Leibowitz frowned and suggested we go into his office for privacy. I followed him, walking between two of the glass cases and behind the partition. A right turn brought us to a small, richly-furnished office, and he sat behind his desk and offered me the tapestry-covered antique chair in front. I put my handbag in my lap, took out the recorder, and turned it on, nevertheless leaving it out of sight.

"I don't know anything about a murder."

"No one suspects you, Mr. Leibowitz. The murder took place in San Ricardo a week ago, and perhaps it didn't make the papers here." I gave him my most reassuring smile. "We only want information about Mr. Hammond's movements. We know he flew to Los Angeles and that he intended to come here on Friday."

"Hammond, did you say? Do you mean the Hammond of Hammond Jewelers? If he planned to come to see me, he didn't make it."

I reached into my bag and pulled out the photo of Harry. "This is Mr. Hammond."

Leibowitz glanced at the photo and handed it back to me. "No, I didn't see that man. I'm sorry."

I took a deep breath, wondering what to ask next. "Were you here that day?"

"Yes, I spent both Friday and Saturday in the store."

Saturday. Harry didn't return to San Francisco until late that afternoon. Perhaps he made his appointment not for Friday night at all but Saturday. And, come to think of it, he saw Epstein, not Leibowitz.

"Are you familiar with a diamond dealer named Epstein?"

"Of course."

"Did he come here on Friday or Saturday of last week?"

"Yes, we had a short meeting on Saturday."

"Is it possible Mr. Hammond saw Mr. Epstein that day?"

Leibowitz straightened in his chair, frowned, reached out for the photo, and pulled reading glasses from his breast pocket. He leaned forward and studied the picture carefully that time before returning it again. "If this is Mr. Hammond, yes, he did."

"And you saw him too."

"Yes. After we concluded our business, Mr. Epstein asked if he could wait in my store for a few minutes because he'd told a client to meet him there. He didn't tell me the man's name, only said the meeting would save him a trip to San Francisco."

"So then Hammond came into your store."

"Yes, about five minutes later."

"That would have been about what time?"

He returned the glasses to his pocket. "About eleven. I'd expected to take Mr. Epstein to lunch, but when this man arrived, they talked for almost an hour in my office, then Epstein said good-bye to me, and they left."

"Together, presumably to lunch?"

"Perhaps. I didn't follow them, but they may have gone to Caesar's restaurant in the next block." He raised an arm and pointed to his left. "Rather pricey, but the food is good, and they specialize in New York cheesecake."

"So you didn't see Hammond or Epstein again that day?"

"No, I didn't."

I snapped off the machine, put it back in my purse, and stood up. "Thank you very much, Mr. Leibowitz. I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me."

"I'm glad to have assisted." He walked me to the door.

"You've been very helpful." I meant that, as I'd already run into too many people who seemed bent on saying as little as possible. We shook hands, and I let myself out then walked up the sidewalk, glancing into store windows as I went, continuing on to the next block, looking for Caesar's restaurant. The street seemed to be lined with jewelry stores, boutiques, and antique shops, all very glamorous and definitely out of my price range.

I finally found Caesar's at the very end of the block, with a side entrance. Its brick exterior, with short striped awnings over its windows, differed from its chrome, glitzy neighbors. The door was heavy and carved out of some dark wood, and when I gratefully stepped out of the sunshine, I had to adjust my eyes to the gloom of the interior. I shivered from air cooled beyond the comfort zone, as if, unless the temperature stayed under sixty degrees, the restaurant's machine wasn't doing its job.

A young man, holding a handful of menus, materialized out of the darkness. "Table for one?"

"Um, no." I pulled out the photo of Harry again. "I wonder if you could help me. Do you remember seeing this man come into the restaurant a week ago?"

"A week ago? You mean like today, Saturday?"

"Yes, at around lunchtime. Were you here last week?"

"Yeah." He studied the photo and returned it to me, shaking his head. "I don't recognize him. He's not one of our regulars."

"He might never have come here before, but I hoped—"

"We get a lot of customers. Heck, I can take the picture into the back and ask around."

I nodded and let him go, waiting in the small foyer and thinking that idea was bound to be unproductive. Maybe stupid. Even if a waiter knew they'd been there for lunch a week ago, he wouldn't be able to tell me what they discussed or where they went when they left. I sighed.

I'd have to find a taxi and go back to the airport. Worse, I'd have to admit to Brad I'd been mistaken, and this had been a wild goose chase. All I knew for certain was that Harry had been in that area on Saturday afternoon and saw his diamond dealer. We could have waited to find that out—and what they talked about—when we called Epstein Monday morning. So much for my intuition.

A different waiter returned with the photo. He was also young, with a small mustache, and wore the same dark pants and white shirt as the other. He smiled at me. "I remember him."

"You do?" I could have kissed him.

"Yeah. He and another guy sat at one of my tables."

"Are you sure?" I found myself repeating what the other waiter had said. "That was a whole week ago, and you get so many customers."

"Normally, I wouldn't have remembered, especially since they weren't regulars, but this guy…" He tapped the photo. "…left twice and came back."

"What do you mean, 'left'?"

"They ordered, and the guy walked out of the restaurant."

"He didn't just go to the men's room?"

"Nah, he went outside. Stayed away a long time. When I brought their lunches, the other man asked could I keep his friend's hot a little while. So I took it back to the kitchen, and luckily, someone else had ordered the steak sandwich, so we served it. That just does not keep." He spoke with authority, nodding for emphasis. "We made him a fresh one when he got back."

He looked a little smug about the way he'd handled the situation, probably got a big tip for the special service. Perhaps that helped his memory.

"You said he left twice."

"Yes. The first time, the other guy handed him something out of his briefcase. Then this guy, the one in the picture, took it with him when he went out and came back without it."

"You're sure?"

"Pretty sure. Of course, I didn't watch every second."

"When did the man go out the second time?"

"They ordered cheesecake and coffee, and the guy gets up and goes out again. I served the cheesecake, but I didn't pour his coffee. That time he didn't stay away so long though."

"Do you have any idea where he went when he left the restaurant?"

"Nope, but when he came back the second time, I noticed he had a package with him."

"What kind of package?"

"I figured he had brought back the thing, whatever it was, that he had taken with him when he went out before."

"What did the thing look like? What size?"

"About like—" He indicated with his hands that it was about the size of a hardcover book. Considering the state of secondary education these days, I wasn't surprised he didn't describe it that way. Probably hadn't touched one since being forced into reading Moby Dick in high school.

"You said when he came back the second time he held a package. Wrapped? Or in a paper bag? Did you see a store name on the bag?"

"In a bag, I think. I didn't see a name, but there coulda been one."

"Did you notice anything else about him or his companion?"

He thought for a moment. "Nope, that's it."

"Thanks. You've been a great help." I gave him five dollars, put the photo away again, and stepped back outside, letting the Southern California sunshine warm my chilled body.

I stopped to think. Where had Hammond gone on his mysterious errand? And had he visited the same place both times? What would cause a man to buy a book in the middle of lunch? I hadn't passed a bookstore on the way, but maybe one occupied a spot beyond the restaurant or, perhaps, across the street.

I moved over to the curb and looked across. I saw more boutiques and another restaurant. A red sports car pulled away from in front of a video store, and I looked to the right, scanning signs.

And then I did a double take. A video store. Even in that neighborhood, the patrons needed their Hollywood fix, but what must the rent have been like? My senses had perked up, and my brain made the connection. I waited for the light to change, crossed the street, and walked over to the store. A tastefully printed sign in the window announced that they sold cameras, rented cameras, and videotaped weddings. Also, they would transfer your home movies or anything else to tape or DVD while you waited. Bingo!

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

What's approximately the same size as a book, at least the book the waiter described to me? Right, a videocassette tape. What had gone missing from Hammond's briefcase? A videocassette tape. Furthermore, there, right across the street from the restaurant where Harry had lunch the day of his murder, was a video store, one that offered to transfer home movies or anything else to tape or DVD. In addition, according to the waiter, Hammond left the restaurant on two brief occasions, the first time with a "thing" the size of a book, and he returned the second time with a package. I didn't need the Los Angeles Coliseum to fall on me to realize Harry might have had the store copy a tape for him during lunch. Now I needed to prove it.

I pushed open the door and went inside. The front part resembled a typical video rental place: walls lined with the small colorful boxes that contained tapes and DVDs of movies. Several rows of five-foot-high narrow shelves housing more films occupied the center of the room, and I saw several people browsing.

Near the front, on the left side, two young women—make that girls who looked every bit of fifteen but were trying for a world-weary thirty—stood behind a long counter, checking out rentals to customers. On the right, a glass-fronted cabinet displayed video cameras and accessories. The back wall held an open doorway to a long hall, but my glance in that direction didn't give a clue about what lay beyond. I waited until one of the young girls finished with her customer and then asked if I could see the manager.

"He isn't in today."

"Is there anyone else in charge, maybe an assistant manager?"

She seemed to be thinking, but I could tell she wasn't good at it. "Uh, yeah."

"Could I please speak to that person?"

Something apparently registered in her mind, and she moved to the end of the counter, retrieved a telephone, pressed a button, and said, "Someone would like to see you," into the mouthpiece. Then she put it down, said, "He'll be out soon," and went back to her position.

While I waited, I watched the girls chattering and giggling to one another. Youth may be necessary, but I thought we had enough of it. How about a fountain of smart?

I moved over to the open doorway at the back, and sure enough, soon a young man appeared and came toward me. He looked about eighteen, tall and thin, wearing jeans, a white short-sleeved shirt and blue bow tie, and his longish, dark brown hair was slicked back with some sort of gel.

He had a healthy-looking smile, however, and good manners. "Good afternoon. What can I do for you?"

Having a sudden, irresistible urge to impress him—he probably watched a lot of crime films—I pulled out one of my Featherstone business cards and gave it to him. "I'm investigating a murder case, and I need some information."

The boy's eyes widened along with his smile. "Of course." Like he helped private detectives every day of the week. "What would you like to know?"

"The sign in your window indicates you rent video cameras and transfer film to tape."

"That's right. We offer a complete video service. If it can be done, we can do it." Proud of his slogan, he threw his shoulders back. "What do you want us to do?"

"I only need information." I pulled out Harry's photo. "I have reason to believe this gentleman came into your store with a videotape and either made his own copy or had you make one for him. Would you be the person who helped him with that?"

The young man looked over the photo and shook his head. "I don't recognize him."

"Were you here last Saturday afternoon?"

"Actually, no, not that day."

"Who took your place?"

"The manager. He usually works Saturdays. I'm just here today because he had to go to a wedding."

Another stalemate. I tried another tack. "Do you keep records of transactions?"

"Oh, sure. The computer records show all the rentals."

"I mean other transactions, not just people borrowing movies."

"Yeah, those too."

"And if someone uses a camera or a video recording machine on the premises?"

"Sure, it would show that."

"May I see the records for last Saturday?"

His face shifted into frown mode. "Gee, I don't know. I think all that stuff is confidential. I've only been working here a year, and nobody asked me for that before, but I don't think I'm supposed to give it out."

"You'd be helping in a murder investigation. I'm sure you realize that time is of the essence. Every day that passes diminishes the odds that the killer will be apprehended."

I heard that somewhere, and it sounded authoritative, but the kid apparently wasn't impressed enough to break the rules.

He frowned some more. "I'm sorry, but I can't do that without approval."

"Can you get approval?"

"I can try." He ambled over to the counter and grabbed the telephone, punching in some numbers and then waiting silently, making faces at the two girls, who giggled some more. Finally, he put the phone down and returned to me. "Nobody answers at the manager's house. Like I told you, he went to a wedding today."

"Do you have any idea when he might return? Did he say he'd come back here afterward?"

"No. I'm on until eight, and then another guy will stay until midnight and lock up the store."

My tolerance for frustration was usually pretty high, but I had a strong urge to kick something. Fortunately, the base of the counter appeared hard enough to break my foot, so I desisted. Instead, I just clenched my teeth and tried to cajole my brain into coming up with a good idea. But it didn't, apparently exhausted after having suggested Harry made the missing videotape.

"Could I please have the name and number of the manager, then? That way I can keep calling him myself and not bother you."

"Oh, I'll give you his name, but I'm not allowed to give out his number." He went back to the counter and found a pencil and the store's business card. "We're open really early in the morning, so if you call here then, you'll probably get him."

I did another double take when he handed me the card, and I saw he'd written "Woo" after the store's telephone number. Then I decided the manager must be Chinese or Korean. I thanked him and asked if he knew of a hotel nearby, which I realized later was probably a dumb question since he undoubtedly lived in town and wouldn't need one, and of course, he didn't.

Outside again, I managed to hail a taxi, and the driver took me to a fancy hotel not far away. I didn't want to stay overnight—and certainly I wouldn't normally have chosen such a glamorous place—but I couldn't see any way to avoid it and felt just annoyed enough to put a big charge on Brad's expense account.

They made an imprint of my credit card, and then I went into their sundries shop and bought a new toothbrush and the smallest size of toothpaste I'd ever seen to supplement the shampoo and other toiletries inside the room. I phoned Brad, and we discussed my determination to follow that lead to its end, wherever that might take me.

"Let me get this straight." He repeated my information. "You think Hammond and Epstein went to this restaurant together, and then Hammond left in the middle of lunch."

"The waiter said he left twice, taking something the size of a book the first time and returning without it. Then he went out a second time and returned with something in a bag."

"So you think he went across the street to this video store and made a videotape?"

"A copy of one, yes. I think he made a copy of a tape that Epstein gave him, and that's the tape we saw in his briefcase. After all, the tape we saw had no markings on it, not a pre-recorded tape like a movie. Then it disappeared, and Amanda wants you to find it."

"Hold on," Brad said. "That's no longer true. Amanda says it's turned up."

I felt as if I were a water balloon that just dropped ten stories and smashed on a sidewalk. My intuition batting zero, I wondered if the glitzy hotel would refund my money. After all, I hadn't slept in the bed yet, although I did have one of their pillows behind my back at the moment. "Are you sure? I thought you thought that's why somebody ransacked Novotny's house."

"I couldn't reach him for questioning, but you went out to dinner with him last night. Did you ask him?"

"Yes, but he said he thinks they're unconnected. He told me he heard rumors of a drug dealer in his neighborhood and thought the break-in might have been done by someone looking for crack in the wrong house."

"And he expects us to buy that?"

"Even if we did, it doesn't answer the other question. Why did Harry stay in L.A. last weekend?"

"That one we do know, to see Epstein."

"He could have seen him in San Francisco. Why stay over when he knows he has to make a speech at the Merchants' meeting Saturday night?"

"We'll find out when we talk to Epstein Monday morning." He paused. "Why don't you come on home?"

The idea tempted me. After all, I had just reawakened my sexuality, and it clamored for attention. Yet, I also felt a little stubborn. I couldn't admit defeat yet.

"I want to pursue this," I said. "I'll just talk to the manager and find out if Harry copied a videotape. If not, I'll come home. If he did—"

"So what made Epstein's tape so special that he needed to make a copy during lunch? And what became of the one Hammond made? If he did."

"I don't know, but I intend to try to find out."

"Okay, you can stay if you like, but I think it's a waste of time." He paused. "By the way, I read your report about James Powell again. Then I went back and listened to the tape you made of your conversation. The guy's voice makes me think he's hiding something. That and the fact McDonald has a beef with him need more checking. I just wish I could find a connection to Hammond in there."

I had to admit that sounded like a promising lead, but I accepted Brad's willingness to let me stay. "I've got the manager's name. I'll try first thing in the morning. One way or another, I'll be home tomorrow." Before hanging up, he made me promise to call him as soon as I got back.

I detected a smile in his voice when he said, "By the way, I've got a new secretary coming Monday morning. I made sure this one lives on the peninsula."

"I hope she's not like the one who thought everything could be filed under Miscellaneous."

"The agency said she's mid-fifties and a widow."

"Great. Try to keep her long enough for me to get reacquainted with my friends."

Then I called Carl, but nobody answered in bungalow four at the Residence Inn. I left a message with the front desk, another on his voicemail at home, and still another at his office.

Thinking he might be out to dinner reminded me I should do something about my own, so I went to the coffee shop downstairs. When I returned, I hoped to see a flashing light on my phone, but I didn't. Nor did I worry. I felt confident I'd hear from Carl soon. I turned on the television set and watched an ancient movie. (Well, it was that or the British Prime Minister addressing Parliament.) But at every commercial break, my mind went back to Carl.

The movie ended, and still Carl hadn't called. Then I did begin to worry. Going home would be pointless, even if there were a flight at that time of night. Probably, I reasoned, Carl had gone to a movie after dinner. He'd call me in the morning.

Yet, the worry refused to go away. My intuition flashed warnings at me, but it hadn't been right so far that day, so I didn't expect it to get clairvoyant all of a sudden. Nevertheless, once again I didn't sleep very well.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The assistant manager's "really early," it turned out, meant ten, which I learned when I telephoned the video store the next morning and got a recorded message. I arrived just before the hour and found a young woman unlocking the door. This one appeared to be in her late teens or early twenties, with hair of a red color that Mother Nature never imagined, a golden tan and firm body, dressed in a short, tight skirt and skimpy tank top. I remembered the time I, too, had a body like hers. Unfortunately, in those days I didn't consider it "cool" to flaunt it, so who knew?

She entered first and held the door open for me, not from any respect for my age—although young people always know when someone is old enough to be their mother—but because the box into which customers had dropped movies after store hours blocked the door and kept it from opening all the way. As soon as I squeezed through, she pushed the box farther away, and I told her I had come to see Mr. Woo.

"Oh, he'll be in any minute," she assured me.

She disappeared into the back of the store, then returned to the box of tapes and DVDs and systematically unloaded it. She stacked as many of the small plastic containers in her arms as she could handle and then carried them to the counter. When all of them had been transferred, she took the videotapes out of the boxes, apparently to be sure they were rewound. The DVDs didn't need to be checked.

I watched her for a few minutes, wondering how she returned them to their rightful places. Who determined, for instance, when a new release became an old release and could be put with comedy, satire, or whatever, and who decided what was a thriller, mystery, or drama? If just any employee could replace them, it seemed to me that films could get lost even easier than books in a library. At least libraries had the Dewey Decimal System. However, before I could ask the young lady, the phone rang, and she picked it up.

I moved a few feet away from the counter and waited. When she hung up, I opened my mouth to ask my question, but she beat me to it.

"Mr. Woo has been delayed and won't be in until three this afternoon."

I'm not a cursing woman, but I seriously considered expanding my vocabulary for the occasion. Instead, I thanked her, told her I'd be back at three, and walked out of the store. I wondered if detecting was always this difficult, if the people you needed to see were always somewhere else. Brad had warned me that mainly boring stuff, like finding people and asking them questions, made up the bulk of his days, but I thought a murder case would be different. Instead, except for dinners with Carl, I seemed to do nothing but try to interview other individuals.

I called Brad at his apartment, waking him up. "The video store owner is delayed until three, so I won't be back until late this afternoon."

"Huh? Oh, okay, whatever you say."

"Anything happening up there I should know about?"

"Uh, no, I don't think so." Then, in a brighter voice, "Oh yeah, I went into the office yesterday and found a message for you on voicemail. From Novotny."

I tried not to sound too eager. "What did he say?"

"Let me think. It seemed a little strange, so I'll try to repeat it verbatim." He cleared his throat. "'I need to see you. I've done a stupid thing. I'll come to your office Monday morning.'"

"A stupid thing," I repeated. "What do you suppose he meant by that?"

"I haven't the foggiest. I thought you'd know."

I hoped Carl didn't mean our exchanging a few kisses Friday night. If anyone should feel stupid about it, it was yours truly, but I didn't. So there.

"Well, thanks. See you later."

Putting my cell phone away, I walked up the street wondering what Carl meant, finally deciding not to speculate and just put it out of my mind for a while. However, how could I kill almost five hours? I'd had breakfast, it was too early for lunch, and I'd already checked out of the hotel. As I'd discovered before, except for the video store, that area of town boasted nothing but jewelry and antique shops, with an occasional expensive restaurant thrown in, not my idea of a way to muddle through five hours. I'd have given a tidy sum for a bookstore but didn't find any. Still, it was Tinsel Town, wasn't it? The home of Hollywood and the movies? Surely, an open movie theater lurked somewhere nearby.

Two blocks away, I spotted one, but every film they were showing carried the label "action adventure" with no doubt more bombs and explosions than a genuine war. My main quarrel with such films was the sound, which I felt sure could be heard in Brazil. Teenagers sold you the tickets in the theater, then collected them from you, sold you the popcorn in the lobby, and swept it up afterward, right? And they were all deaf from playing their iPods at decibels that could crack the sound barrier, so they turned up the movie volume to compensate. That, I didn't need. When I planned to see a movie, I took along a wad of cotton to put in my ears, and I didn't have any in my purse that day.

Instead, I went back to the hotel and browsed in their lobby shops without buying anything. I perused the latest fashions in resort wear, but the only outfits I really admired would have required a hefty bank loan. Eventually, I had lunch in their dining room, where I chose a small salad, then went into the lobby to sit on one of their deep plush chairs. At least I didn't look out of place. I'd chosen my best suit for that trip, a plum-colored wool that I'd bought for my wedding to Lamar. I remembered reasoning that my first wedding dress had been white satin and cost my father at least a month's salary, so I ought to spend a similar amount on an outfit for my second trip to the altar, lest anyone think I didn't care enough. If I'd known what was going to happen to that marriage, I'd have chosen sackcloth.

I glanced through Architectural Digest and looked at my watch for the tenth time. Then a well-dressed, middle-aged woman sat down next to me. I looked over at her briefly, and she took that as an opening for conversation.

"Are you staying here?"

It seemed a strange question, but I answered, "Yes." Well, I had stayed the night, hadn't I? And for all I knew, circumstances might require me to spend another night there.

"Alone?"

This seemed altogether too inquisitive. If she'd been a man instead of a plump dowager type with a gorgeous mauve suede coat over a matching dress, I'd have been up and away at the speed of a Derby winner. Instead, I just said, "Yes," and waited to hear what she'd ask next.

"Are you waiting for someone?"

"No. I need to go out later, but I'm too early." Full of curiosity now, I asked, "Are you waiting for someone?"

"Yes, my bridge partner. Four of us meet here for our usual Sunday bridge game, and she's late. I can't imagine what's keeping her." A pause while she frowned and fiddled with a diamond-studded watch that adorned her wrist along with equally jewel-bedecked bracelets. "Do you play bridge?" she asked next.

Do I play bridge? Do I love the game and even teach part-time? I merely smiled and answered, "Yes, I do."

Another pause. "Would you mind waiting here a moment, while I make a call?"

"No, I don't mind."

She went away and came back two minutes later with an even deeper frown on her face than before. "I don't mean to intrude, and please feel free to say, 'No,' but I wondered if you'd do me a huge favor?" She resumed her seat.

"If I can."

She leaned toward me and spoke quickly. "I've just learned that my partner isn't able to come today after all."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Having been in that position myself, I recognized the disappointment she felt, and by then, I also knew her next question, but I just smiled and let her ask it anyway.

"I wondered if you might be willing to take her place. Just for a few hours."

I looked at my own watch. "I'll be happy to." I could have added that her invitation not only saved me from three hours of boredom but couldn't have pleased me more.

She grinned and looked delighted. "Oh, thank you. You'll make three old widows very happy." She paused. "Oh by the way, my name is Beatrice Franklin."

"Olivia Grant."

She popped up from the seat then. "Not to rush you, but the others are already seated in the card room."

I stood, and together we walked down the lushly carpeted hall and into a small private room that faced a garden full of flowers that had no business blooming that time of year. Mrs. Franklin—I assumed she was a Mrs.—introduced me to two other silver-haired ladies wearing Barbara Bush pearls and ages somewhere between eighty and death.

One deck of cards already lay fanned out across the table, and after greeting me, they urged me to sit and passed me a dish of candy, which, since it wasn't chocolate, I managed to decline.

I won't bore you with the hands. If you don't play bridge, you won't understand or care anyway. Suffice it to say that I held my own. In spite of their advanced age, eyesight that had declined to the level of squash, and arthritic hands, the ladies played very well, reinforcing my belief that games, especially bridge, which requires considerable skill, keeps one's mind from atrophy.

However, the important thing is not so much that I played well as what happened afterward. Scores were totaled, and I had won 2020 more points than the others. I smiled, thanked the ladies for a lovely afternoon, and got to my feet.

Mrs. Franklin stopped me before I could leave the table. "Wait, we haven't given you your winnings."

Winnings? Nobody had said anything about winnings. I looked around and saw the ladies dig into their purses, bringing out wads of cash. Cash they proceeded to push in my direction. Two-thousand-twenty dollars, to be precise.

"But," I sputtered, "you didn't say we were playing for money."

"Oh, did I forget? We always play for money. Don't we, girls? One dollar a point. It's so much more interesting that way."

"But I couldn't," I protested. "I'm not a regular. I just—"

"Nonsense. You played well, and it's the rule." She scooped up the bills and, opening my purse which I'd left on my chair, stuffed them inside. All the time smiling as if she loved paying out that kind of money.

In fact, maybe she did. People who will play cards for a dollar a point must have lots of it to throw around. Her outfit and the hotel they played in should have warned me.

I backed out of the room in a daze, hailed a cab, and was halfway back to the video store before I suddenly thought of something horrible. What if I had lost instead of won? What if I had to come up with even a quarter of that much money? I nearly fainted right there in the taxi.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Thanks to my unexpected bridge game, I returned to the video store about five minutes past three, and the manager, Mr. Woo, true to his word, had already arrived at the store. The cab ride having restored my equilibrium, I produced one of my Featherstone cards, which he read through round-rimmed glasses that matched his round face. I told him my reason for coming.

"Mr. Woo, I'd like to ask you a few questions about a man who may have been a customer of yours last Saturday."

As I spoke, I pulled Harry Hammond's picture from my purse. That dislodged some of the bills Mrs. Franklin had stuffed in it, and I suddenly found myself kneeling on the floor to pick them up. Mr. Woo was polite and helped, giving me a look which hinted that, despite my card, I must be a small-time drug dealer.

That done, I stuffed the bills into the zippered compartment of my purse, and he glanced at Harry's picture for a few seconds. He pointed with a pudgy finger. "You're asking if I know this man?"

"Yes, do you recognize him?" I felt uncomfortable doing business in the middle of his store and wished he'd suggest we go back to his office or somewhere else, but he didn't. He looked me over suspiciously, as if afraid to be alone with me, as if he thought I carried a pistol in another part of my bag.

I smiled my most innocent smile. "I'm not sure the man came here, but it's very likely. We're trying to trace his whereabouts last Saturday, and I have reason to believe he came into your store around noon to have a videotape copied."

Woo took the photo and studied it, then handed it back so quickly I doubted he'd ever seen him before. "Yes, the gentleman was here."

I took a deep breath and felt my lips turning up in a smile. Good ol' intuition. "And did he come to copy a videotape?"

"Yes and no. Come into my office." Although shorter than I was and probably weighing less, Mr. Woo apparently decided I wasn't dangerous after all. He turned and headed down the hall toward the back of the shop, and I followed.

As I walked, my optimism returned. The earlier delay had proven frustrating, but once again, I felt my intuition was batting a thousand.

Mr. Woo entered a doorway on the left of the hall, and we entered a small windowless office wallpapered with giant movie posters. He went behind the desk and turned his computer on but didn't sit down or suggest I do. So we stood and waited. I felt as if I were in the middle of a gaggle of movie stars. Rambo larger than life. Marilyn with her windblown skirt billowing. Mr. Woo touched some keys, waited again, and touched a few more. "Mr. Hammond, yes."

"Yes," I repeated. "Did Mr. Hammond make the copy himself, or did you or someone else do it for him?"

He read from the screen. "Miss Bartholomew usually makes copies, but we were very busy that day. I made it for him myself."

"Mr. Hammond didn't wait for it to be made?"

"No. I told him to come back in one hour. He agreed to do that. He said he would have lunch in the restaurant across the street."

I grinned. "In that case, you saw the tape. Can you tell me what was on it?"

He looked over at me. "I like to cooperate, you see, but I cannot tell you about the tape. That was none of my business."

"I understand." I did understand. He copied the videotape but didn't watch it during the process. He just did the job as quickly as possible with no snooping or so he said, but I needed to know more. "Can you describe the tape you copied? Did it have a name anywhere on it?"

"No, I didn't see a name. I think perhaps a number." He thought a moment. "Yes, a number and the letter H."

H for Hammond, perhaps. I repeated it for Mr. Woo just to be sure. "You don't remember the number?"

"No."

"Mr. Hammond left the videotape with you to copy and went away for an hour or so, is that right?"

"That's correct. He returned, I gave him the tapes, and he paid me. That is all." He touched some more keys on the keyboard and looked up at me again, smilingly confident he'd told me everything.

"Did you make a copy of the tape to keep for your store records?"

"Oh, no. I gave him the only copy."

Certain I had all the information I could possibly learn, I thanked him for his cooperation and asked him to call if he thought of anything else. We shook hands, and I left the store.

Going back to the corner, I looked for a cab at the same time I pulled out my cell phone and called Brad's number. Voicemail picked up on the fourth ring, and, miffed that he didn't answer, I left a cryptic message, saying I had news but offering no details.

Then I headed for the airport where I discovered I'd have to wait until nine p.m. to get a flight back. I spent that enforced delay in the gate area, alternately reading a paperback book I bought at the newsstand and people-watching. Judging by the clothing worn by the passengers waiting to catch flights to San Francisco, jeans with holes in the knees were still in fashion, and a trip of less than five hundred miles required you to bring two carry-ons and a garment bag the size of a sofa.

Flying was very tiring. Don't ask me why. All you did was sit in a seat. You should get up refreshed, but it didn't seem to work that way. Maybe it was due to breathing last month's air. Thank goodness they didn't let people smoke in airplanes anymore. I mean, who were they kidding with that "non-smoking area" thing? Didn't some comic say that a non-smoking area in an airplane was like having a "no-pee" zone in a swimming pool?

Of course, it was almost eleven by the time I deplaned, walked through the terminal and the parking garage, and drove south. Yet, I didn't go straight home. First, I went to the Residence Inn and knocked on the door of bungalow four. No answer. Then, I inquired at their front office for Mr. Novotny and learned he'd checked out that morning. I drove to his house and rang the doorbell repeatedly, but no one answered there either. I didn't relish the idea of having to wait until the next morning, and my worry grew exponentially.

*   * *

On Monday morning, the sky, gray and gloomy, dripped rain. I hadn't been able to fall asleep for a long while the night before and then woke up at six feeling hungry, remembering I'd had no dinner. At six-thirty I gave up trying to go back to sleep and showered and dressed. Although I seldom wore them to the office, I put on a skirt and high heels because I expected to see Carl that morning. My breakfast consisted of orange juice, cereal, and a banana that was softer than I liked. I decided I still had time, so I lingered over the newspaper, actually reading all the comics as well as headlines, Dear Abby, and the bridge column.

Finally, still too early but anxious to see Carl, I left my suburban split-level and drove to the office. I parked my car, scampered into the building through the drizzle, and took the elevator up to the fourth floor. Since few renters occupied the offices, the building's owner provided no Muzak, and only the hum of the mechanism accompanied me.

And then I heard two loud cracks. For a minute, I thought something had happened to the elevator and I would be plunged to the basement and lie in a crumpled heap of broken bones until someone found me days later. My heart raced, and my breathing accelerated. However, the elevator came to a smooth stop, and the doors opened. I looked around before getting out. Where had the sound come from, inside or outside? A car crash?

I stepped out and walked down the hall, my heels clicking loudly on the hard floor. I smelled a strange odor, like smoke but different. Then I rounded the corner to the corridor toward our office. One look and my panic came back. A man lay sprawled on the tile, his body blocking our door.

That was more déjà vu than I needed. Less than a week before, I'd come upon a man in the same condition. You tell yourself things like that happened to other people, not you. And then it did happen to you. Adrenaline pumped, my heart pounded. I dropped my purse, keys, and raincoat and ran toward him. My head felt as if it would explode. I knew then what had made that cracking sound.

I reached the body and stooped down. Once more, I looked into Carl Novotny's face, but this time I saw what I presumed to be a bullet hole in his head, another in his neck. He wasn't just knocked out this time. He was dead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Blood covered the front of his suit and shirt and made a puddle under him. I couldn't breathe. Tears sprang to my eyes and filled my throat. I wanted to scream, but only strangled sounds and breathless gasps came from my open mouth. "Oh no, oh no."

My knees trembled, and I stood up shakily, putting a hand on the wall to steady myself. I felt something wet and realized blood had spattered the wall and I had touched it. I looked at my palm and felt sudden nausea. In addition to my usual queasiness at the sight of blood, I realized that was Carl's blood, Carl's life that had oozed away.

"Oh no." My stomach heaved. I gagged, turned, ran to the ladies' room across the hall, and lost my breakfast in the first toilet.

I didn't know how long I knelt in front of the bowl, shaking with alternate spasms of hot and cold, but realized later it must have been only a few minutes. When I could spit up no more, I rose from the cold tile floor and lurched to a wash basin. I washed my hands and mouth three times, wondering if I'd left blood stains on the toilet bowl but didn't go back to look.

My tongue tasted horrible, and my throat burned. I filled a paper cup with water, rinsing my mouth again and again. Then I gulped some water, swallowing slowly. Finally, I dried my hands and face on six or seven paper towels and staggered out. I had to get back to Carl. I had to do something. Perhaps no one else had heard the shots. Only one other company occupied an office on that floor. Perhaps their employees hadn't come in yet.

In the hallway, I picked up my belongings and, trying not to look at the body, used both quivering hands to insert the key in the lock and turn the knob. I had to step over Carl to get inside, but luckily my legs didn't fail me, and I made it. Hands shaking, I grabbed the desk phone and punched 9-1-1, but when a woman came on the line, I could hardly speak. My mind, irrational, visualized those emergency calls they sometimes showed on the television news, and I blanked out. The woman kept talking to me, and finally, I recited my story.

I sat in the secretary's chair and put my head on the desk. I was hyperventilating, feeling as if I couldn't get enough air, and tears came flooding down again, soaking the tissues I pulled from the drawer. Finally, I heard noises in the hall. One of the men who worked for the other company on our floor poked his head inside and saw me.

"Have you called the police?"

I could only nod.

He turned and talked to someone else in the hall, and I heard other voices. Then Brad walked in, took one look at my face, and came around the desk to put his arms around me. I cried harder, slobbering against his coat, making unintelligible sounds that meant nothing except that I felt engulfed in pain and didn't know what to do about it.

The rest of the morning blurred by. The police came, of course. Also reporters, paramedics, a coroner, and Brad's cop friend, Tom Ortega. And the new secretary—gray-haired, plump, and motherly.

Brad helped me into his office and put me in his own chair, and that's where I sat, feeling more like a defendant in a serious trial than a VIP. I could swear every person who worked in the building, including Velma Edison, who actually didn't, came by at some time or other. To say nothing of tradespeople who'd apparently heard about the murder on the fourth floor and decided to see for themselves. Parry came in and put her arms around me, but I couldn't speak, and she said, "Call me when you feel up to it," and went out again. Even Rose Hammond's attorney showed up, although I couldn't figure out how he learned about it so soon.

I told my story several times to different authority figures who asked questions, forcing myself to remember and relate every minute of finding Carl lying at our door.

"Did you see anyone else, maybe the murderer, in the hallway?" one detective asked.

"No." But the possibility that the killer was still nearby when I found the body made me shiver. I might have been his next victim. Or had he made his escape by then? If so, where did he go and when?

Sometime, well after noon, they took Carl's body away, and then Brad, probably realizing I must be pretty shaken up, even though he didn't know the extent of my relationship with Carl, suggested I go home. I let him drive me there, shed all my clothes, pulled on a sleep shirt, and crawled into bed. I didn't expect to fall asleep. I continued to have bouts of near-hysterical crying, but exhaustion and the body's need to recover from traumatic events finally took their toll, and I dropped off.

When I woke up, I saw darkness inside and out, and I was hungry. Two things filtered into my brain: I had slept a long time, and I had an appetite. Both seemed a little incongruous. Even so, I put on my ratty old slippers and a robe older than Brooke Shields and went into the kitchen.

Nothing in the refrigerator appealed to me, ditto the pantry. I craved something warm and comforting, but I didn't want to cook, even if my fuzzy brain would let me remember how. Instead, I picked up the phone and ordered a pizza to be delivered. While I waited for it, I found a jar of macadamia nuts I'd been saving for my next bridge night, opened it, and had most of them eaten by the time my dinner arrived.

A tray with the pizza and a can of cold root beer in my lap, a stack of paper napkins at my side, and the TV remote close by, I indulged myself, polishing off my dinner with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream topped with chocolate sauce and Cool Whip. I ignored thoughts of what all this could do to my waistline. Old movie after old movie passed before my eyes, and during commercials, I channel-hopped, anything to keep my mind from returning to the image of Carl's bleeding body.

Brad rang the doorbell around nine and said he'd delivered my car. I let him put it away for me, and after determining I seemed to be recovering from my basket-case behavior, he said his ride waited outside, kissed me on the cheek, and left.

Sometime after midnight I fell asleep on the sofa, awoke during a loud commercial, turned off the television set, and returned to bed. Monday had ended. Then I remembered. It had been exactly one week before that Debra Hammond came into the office and started the chain of events that led to my finding Carl's body in front of our door. I wanted to cry but couldn't. I had no tears left. Surprisingly, I went right back to sleep.

*   * *

I won't say I felt completely normal Tuesday morning. Even my mirror gave me nasty news. Time may heal everything else, but it does nothing for one's looks. I knew I'd never be quite the same again, and I empathized with doctors, nurses, police officers, and anyone else who had to look at people who died violently. Yet, it was worse when you knew the victim. Death and the idea of dying came very close. The fact that you, too, would die someday suddenly took on reality. Like they say, life and dying are the only games in town. Still, Carl was young. It shouldn't have been his time.

Dragging myself out of bed, I carried on my normal routine of showering, dressing, and eating without a case of hysterics. Carl was dead. I didn't love him, but had things progressed the way they seemed to be heading, I might have gone to bed with him. If I had, I'd probably feel even worse. However, I reasoned, sooner or later I'd get over the trauma of finding his body. I knew I needed to plunge into work and find out who killed him.

Then my brain cleared, and I remembered. Brad didn't need me. He had a new secretary now. Furthermore, the police were on the case, and probably no one was offering to pay Brad or me to find the murderer. Nevertheless, I knew I wouldn't rest until I did. Could it be the same person who killed Harry? I felt certain of it, even though I had no idea what either of them had done to provoke it.

I picked up my cell phone and pressed One and Send. Brad answered.

"Why are you answering the phone?" I blurted out. "Where's the new secretary?"

"She quit. One look at the dead guy in the hall, to say nothing of all the police and reporters badgering her, and she decided she'd prefer a job in an insane asylum."

My shocked silence turned into laughter. That was getting to be a joke. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, dammit." He sounded annoyed. "I finally decided you were right and asked the agency for a mature woman, and look what happened."

I didn't know how to answer. "Okay, I'm coming in."

He didn't protest.

Once again, I had to enter the office building and go up in the elevator. I found myself holding my breath, almost waiting for the sound of another gunshot, but nothing happened. As I turned the corner into our hallway, my knees weakened slightly, and my chest felt tight, but any sign of what had happened the day before had been swept away. No body, no blood, not even any yellow police tape. We were no longer a crime scene.

When I entered the office, Brad sat at his desk, talking on the telephone. I gave him a wave, then took off my coat and sat down at the secretary's desk. Crumpled tissues lay everywhere like dead flowers, and I swept them into the wastebasket, hoping none of the dozens of people who'd been in there the day before had walked off with anything vital.

The coffeemaker stood on the credenza, cold stale dregs in the bottom of the pot, so I took it into the ladies' room across the hall to wash it out. I remembered kneeling at the toilet bowl, retching, but thankfully I didn't feel the need to do that again. Every minute that passed seemed to make me stronger, more able to cope.

Even so, something in the lavatory seemed different to me, as if another memory of the day before struggled to return. I stared at my face in the mirror over the sink. What was different? Why did I expect to learn something I didn't know before? I shook my head. Probably I had nothing to learn. Yesterday I'd been sick in there, and today I wasn't. That's all.

When I returned, Brad had finished his telephone conversation and came into the outer office to ask how I felt. "You didn't have to come in today, you know. I can call the agency and—"

"No, don't. Don't get a new secretary until this case is solved. I want to be here. First, my best friend's husband was killed and now the man…"

"Olivia, were you…?"

"No!" To keep Brad from seeing my face, I put the coffeepot away, and when I felt composed, I sat down. "I'm okay, and I'd like to help you solve this case."

"Whatever you want."

"Brad, do you think the same person committed both murders?"

He perched on the edge of the desk. "I sure lean in that direction. Of course, it's possible Novotny killed Hammond. On that message he left for you he said he'd done something stupid."

"In the first place," I told him emphatically, "I don't think Novotny killed Hammond. Even if he did, why would someone kill him? If that person is so sure of his guilt, why not give the information to the police and turn him in?"

"I agree. More likely Novotny knew who did kill Hammond, and the murderer has been trying to shut him up. That's why he got whacked on the head a week ago. I never did believe that business about a random burglar."

"What do you think he meant about stupidity?"

"Perhaps that he didn't come forward and tell the police right away."

"Surely he couldn't have seen the crime being committed?"

"Probably not. But he could know something, have some proof."

I almost shouted it. "The videotape!"

"Oh yeah." Brad got up from the edge of the desk. "You left a message on my voicemail that you learned something. How does it connect?"

I told him what Mr. Woo had said.

Brad paced the floor while he talked. "Okay, so we know Hammond copied a videotape. Was it the same tape we saw in his briefcase or another one? And why should Novotny be killed over a videotape, when he said he didn't have it? Amanda says she found the tape with the jewelry pictures. Since Epstein is a diamond dealer, it makes sense that the tape Hammond copied might have had pictures of diamonds."

"Well, there's one way to find out if there were two tapes. If not the one in the briefcase, then Harry carried it home with him along with his clothes. I'll call Rose and ask if she found one when she unpacked his suitcase."

"Good idea, but if she didn't, we're no closer to the truth. Hammond could have done something with the tape. Given it to someone else, mailed it, stored it in an airport locker."

"Spoilsport." I remembered something else. "Have you called Mr. Epstein yet?"

"God, no." Brad ran a hand through his hair. "People swarmed all over the place yesterday, and I never thought of it until long after six Eastern Time. I'll do it now."

He returned to his own office, dialed the number, then filled me in. Mr. Epstein had gone to lunch, but his secretary took Brad's number and said she'd ask him to return the call. We were faced with another case of nobody being where you wanted when you wanted them. The proverb, "Many are called, but few are chosen," needed an update. I'd vote for, "Many are called, but nobody's answering."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

My phone call was to Edgar, asking him to take over the bridge class I was supposed to teach that afternoon. I had forgotten about it, which wasn't surprising under the circumstances.

"The topic today is preemptive bidding."

"Threes, fours, and fives." As usual Edgar's voice was gravelly. "The 'shut-up' bids."

I corrected him. "They're 'shut-out' bids."

"You can call it what you want, and I'll call it what I want."

I grinned. "You usually do. I think that's why my students like you. You should become a teacher too, instead of only taking my place now and then."

"You keep saying that, but you know it would never work. I'm easily bored. I'd hear those stupid questions they ask and say something mean."

"No, you wouldn't." Edgar was actually the sweetest, kindest man I knew, very old-fashioned that way.

"I'd probably do my best to."

While I chuckled, he changed the subject. "I heard you're involved in another murder."

"You heard?"

"The local TV station covers only three topics: rapes, burglaries, and murders. If they go two days without one of those things to report, the anchors break out in hives."

"Why do you watch it then?"

"That blonde anchor has great boobs."

I pretended shock. "Why, Edgar, you dirty old man!"

"So go solve the murder while I teach your class."

When I hung up, I realized he had made me feel a little better. Calmer, anyway.

My next call netted some news. Rose said she found nothing but clothes in Harry's suitcase. Now we only had to track down what else he might have done with the videotape, a daunting prospect.

"Are you and Brad close to finding out who killed him?" Rose asked me. "The police came again yesterday and told me Mr. Novotny was shot and killed outside your office. Thank goodness I'm not a suspect in that."

"They questioned you already?"

"Yes, but I have a perfect alibi. I was having my hair done at the time. My hairdresser and three other customers will vouch for it."

That good news heartened me as well. Of course, I never believed Rose killed her husband. While studying some of Brad's detective literature, I'd learned that it was actually not easy to kill someone by striking him over the head. Skulls are quite hard, and it takes repeated blows or an extremely heavy and sharp object to break it. The awards statue fit that description, but it also had to be wielded with a strong arm and a lot of force. Of course, a victim can die from blows that don't break the skull but cause other trauma. Yet, Rose looked too fragile. It needed someone younger, more physically fit, and possibly male.

"We're moving forward." I answered her earlier question. "Brad has all sorts of leads, and now that there's been a second murder, I think the police are going to put more men on it too."

"Well, I'm not dismissing you. I still want Brad to find out who killed Harry, and I'll pay him for his time, even if the police solve it first."

"That's very generous of you."

I heard her voice crack and her breath catch. "I guess I misjudged Harry. I feel awful about that. Now I have nothing left but his money. Spending some of it to find his murderer is the least I can do."

After I hung up the phone, I glanced into Brad's office. He looked as if he were deep in thought, so I decided not to disturb him. I went back to typing up notes for the file.

The phone rang at eleven, and when I learned it was Mr. Epstein calling from New York, I switched the call to Brad and then shamelessly picked up my extension again so I could listen in. I no longer felt like a mere secretary, if I ever had. I decided finding Carl's dead body made me a partner, and I considered myself entitled to know everything as soon as possible.

Brad identified himself and made sure Epstein knew about the murders before beginning. "We've learned that Hammond bought diamonds from your company, and you met in Los Angeles a week ago Saturday."

"That's correct."

"You went to lunch at Caesar's restaurant, and during that time, Mr. Hammond excused himself on two occasions and left the restaurant. Is that correct?"

"Yes." Epstein didn't volunteer anything more.

Brad apparently decided he'd have to divulge more of what we knew. "We understand he went across the street to a video store and had something copied. Is that right?"

Another solitary, "Yes."

"Can you tell us exactly what he had copied?"

"It was only some information of mine."

"And what might that have been?"

"I'm sorry, but that material is confidential."

"Two men have been murdered, Mr. Epstein, and I think that material may have been instrumental in their deaths." Mr. Epstein didn't reply. "At the moment, the police aren't aware of your involvement."

"I am not involved in any murders!"

"I don't suspect you of murder," Brad said.

I wondered how he could be certain of that. For all we knew, Epstein went to the awards banquet. Did Brad check his name off the guest list he looked at? Couldn't Epstein have stopped in San Francisco on his way back from L.A. and killed Novotny? We didn't know of a motive, but he might have had means and opportunity.

Epstein spoke again. "I don't want to be questioned by the police. I don't need such trouble, and besides, it would be bad for business."

"I agree. And if you can help me learn what Mr. Hammond had copied, there's a strong possibility it will need to go no further than this office."

Another pause. Finally, Epstein said, "He copied the surveillance tape we made in one of our viewing rooms."

"What kind of information could he learn from your surveillance tape?"

"It shows a sight, that is, a collection of diamonds that we were showing to a customer. This is a precaution we often take."

"Only diamonds? Not jewelry in settings?"

"No, just uncut diamonds."

"Is the diamond purchaser visible on the tape?"

"Yes, it gives us a visual record of purchases as well as the written one."

"For which customer?"

"You know I can't tell you that. My clients' business must be kept confidential."

"I understand, but you gave the tape to Mr. Hammond, so it must have been something important to him."

"I didn't know anything about it at the time. I just, well, I thought he ought to be informed about it."

"Apparently he thought it relevant because he went across the street and had a copy made."

"He had so little time." Epstein then went into a lengthy explanation. "He had to fly back to San Francisco to give a speech, and I couldn't let the original out of my hands for very long. When he returned the first time, he told me he couldn't make the copy himself, but the people in the shop would do it for him."

"I see, but why did he feel he had to make a copy right away?"

"He needed it as proof."

"Proof of what?"

Epstein paused for a long time, and I worried that he might decide he'd already told us too much. "You understand this was his opinion. He felt it showed a…an, er, impropriety."

"In your company?"

"No, in his company. The tape showed some diamonds being purchased by his representative, but he believed those particular diamonds had never been delivered."

Brad let out a low whistle. "So he wanted to copy your tape in order to compare the purchased diamonds to his records when he returned to his office."

"Exactly. He seemed very upset."

"Do you have any idea of how the records differed, in what respect they differed? Other than your surveillance tape was a very old VHS tape."

"No, he wouldn't tell me that, but he seemed very grateful that I'd come and brought the proof with me. Yes, it was old, but, as you saw, it still worked. I don't often do that, you see. I mean, visit clients. However, I had to go to California anyway for my sister's husband's funeral, and I visited another client with a problem at the same time."

A funeral combined with a business trip. I assumed that visiting clients on the West Coast made the whole thing tax-deductible.

Brad finished the conversation by asking Epstein to phone him again if he remembered anything that might help us find Harry's murderer.

I hung up the extension on my desk and went into Brad's office, the first time I'd been in there since noon the day before. Apparently, the building cleaning staff hadn't been in, because a pile of empty drink cans, most of which had been used as ashtrays, lay on the floor next to his desk.

I stooped to pick them up. "Your cleaning skills leave much to be desired. Too bad the secretary who came in yesterday didn't think of it."

"Hey, you don't have to do that." He sounded like he did when he was a teenager, and I attempted to clean his room. "I found the stuff all over my desk this morning, and I meant to get rid of it."

"It's okay. I'll take care of it." I went back to the outer office and pulled out a plastic grocery bag from the credenza behind my desk. I'm a pack rat but a neat pack rat. I took it back to Brad's office where he helped me fill it with the debris the police, or whoever, had left behind. Then, not wanting to put it in my wastebasket, where the tobacco smell would bother me all day, I took it across the hall to the ladies' room and deposited it in the container there.

That's when it hit me. I remembered the strange thing about that restroom the day before, the smell of smoke. It never smelled that way. It couldn't. The only other occupied office on that floor was rented by a wholesale machinery salesman, and he had no women working for him. I was the only person who ever used that ladies' room, and I didn't smoke.

The meaning struck me with such force I had to hold onto the sink for support. The killer must have been hiding there when I rushed in after seeing Carl's body, and he'd left behind his calling card, the smell of tobacco. Perhaps he'd been lurking in one of the other stalls, standing on a toilet seat so I couldn't see him even if it occurred to me to look. Perhaps I'd been less than two feet away from Carl's murderer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I tore out of the room and barged into Brad's office as if the killer were right behind me with a hatchet.

My voice sounded like panting. "I know who did it. I know who committed the murder."

"Take it easy. Slow down. You look like you just saw a ghost."

"I did. I mean I remembered something from yesterday."

"What about yesterday?" His eyes widened. "You mean you saw the murderer?"

"No." I sat down opposite him and took some deep breaths. I'd do this calmly and logically. "First, remember I said I heard the gunshot while I was in the elevator?"

"Yes, but you said you didn't recognize it as a gunshot at the time."

"No, I didn't. I thought it might have been two cars colliding."

"I doubt you could have heard that from inside the elevator."

"Whatever. Anyway, the elevator reached the fourth floor a second later, so I thought perhaps the noise had come from up here. When I rounded the corner, I saw Carl." I had to stop and get control of myself. With a mighty effort, I pushed the grisly image out of my mind.

Brad spoke softly. "You already told me that."

"And I got sick and went into the ladies' room."

"Yes. Go on."

"And this morning, when I went back in there, I suddenly realized the difference between now and yesterday. Yesterday it smelled of smoke."

"So?"

He didn't get it.

"At nine in the morning, how could the ladies' room have smelled of smoke? You know nobody uses that room but me." I paused for dramatic effect. "That means the murderer might have been in there at the same time. He could have killed me too."

"Calm down. Aside from the smell of smoke, what makes you think anyone hid in there?"

"It stands to reason. After he shot Carl, he must have heard me coming. I wore heels, and I remember they sounded awfully loud in the hallway. So he looked around for the quickest doorway to duck into. He hid in there so I wouldn't see him."

"So how did he get out without anyone noticing?"

"He could have waited until I left and then came out later when other people started arriving. He could have mingled with the crowd."

Brad paused, rubbing his chin. "If you're right about it, you were in big danger." He frowned. "But you said you knew who killed Novotny."

"Well, not really, but the killer must have been a smoker. He wouldn't have been smoking at that moment, but the smell lingers on their clothes."

"Which of the suspects smokes?"

"John Ziegler, for one. I remember he smoked a cigarette in Rose's house after the funeral. I thought it very inconsiderate of him."

"Maybe Rose smokes too. I thought I saw ashtrays sitting around."

"She didn't smoke back when we were close friends, and people generally don't start the habit in middle age. That's when they quit. The ashtrays are probably left over from the days when people used fancy ones as decoration. She may think they're too pretty to put away."

"Okay, who else?"

"James Powell. When I interviewed him as he left the television station, he lit one the moment he went out the door, as if he couldn't wait to suck some nicotine."

"Except that both worked for jewelry companies, I haven't been able to find a link between his company and Hammond's. What's the motive for the murder?" He paused. "Did Novotny smoke?"

"No, I'm pretty sure he didn't. We had dinner twice, and smokers love to light up after eating. I didn't notice any smoke on his clothes either. Besides, he was dead by the time I smelled smoke in the ladies' room. And he had no reason to go into it when there's a men's room down the hall."

"So why wouldn't the murderer have used the men's room to hide in?"

"The murderer heard me coming down the hall and might have thought he couldn't reach it before I'd see him."

"Of course a woman would naturally use the ladies' room," Brad said.

"Amanda."

"She doesn't smoke."

He'd dashed my hopes again. "Well, I don't think Debra does because I didn't see any ashtrays in her office."

Before I could say any more, he came up with a question. "What did you think of Epstein's information?"

My brain switched to what I'd heard half an hour before. "I think it's the most promising lead we have."

"I do too. I've also narrowed the list down to Ziegler or Powell. Not that I'm necessarily buying the smoker-as-killer theory, but as it happens, I planned to do more thorough background checks on the two of them."

"You already investigated Ziegler, and I interviewed Powell."

"Interviewed, yes, but I need to do more thorough checking on both of them."

"Let me help."

He thought for a long time. "Okay, which do you want, Ziegler or Powell?"

"Ziegler," I said promptly. "After all, you talked to Ziegler before, and I talked to Powell. If we switch places, maybe we'll each learn something the other didn't."

"I don't anticipate necessarily talking to either of them. What we need to do is find out where they lived and what they did before they were given their present positions."

"Skeletons in the closet, you mean." I grinned. "I can do that."

"As a starting point, call Amanda's secretary, and ask her for the company file on John Ziegler. Depending on how much information he provided when he was hired, you may have to look further back."

The thought of acting the sleuth again, doing something positive to take my mind off Carl, pumped me with sudden energy. I leapt to my feet and headed for the outer office again, eager to get started.

*   * *

I'm not a telephone person. I preferred to talk to people face to face, especially if I had to ask questions. So I just jumped in my car and drove to Hammond headquarters. Brad's notes had listed the secretary's name, Toni Varig, so I asked for her immediately. Good secretaries being the helpful, efficient folk they were, she was in and available to see me.

Except that this particular secretary looked anything but helpful. Young, yes. Pretty, yes. Yet, as I should have suspected, as cool as Amanda herself. In fact, her pulled-in-a-bun hair and pinched face made me wonder if she'd been ill. However, the firmness of her jaw, straight line of her lips, and sharp glint in her eye, gave me the impression she would never allow any germs to invade her body.

Mindful that I wanted information and would have to use sweet talk to obtain any, I put on a broad smile. "I'm Olivia Grant, an associate of Brad Featherstone." She knew who he was.

No return smile but at least a polite response. "How can I help you?"

"Mr. Featherstone said you'd be able to supply some information about Mr. Ziegler, the vice president."

Although I'd have thought she'd question his being a suspect in Hammond's murder, she didn't even comment on the possibility.

"What kind of information?"

"The résumé he submitted for employment and his personnel file."

She frowned. "I'm afraid that information is confidential."

"Oh dear." I tried to sound upset and bewildered. "Mr. Featherstone assured me that Ms. Dillon wanted very much to assist in the investigation of Mr. Hammond's, er, untimely death."

"What does Mr. Ziegler's personnel file have to do with that?" Her cold tone made me expect ice cubes to slip out of her mouth suddenly.

"It's just routine, actually. That's why he sent me. I handle these minor matters, and it will only take a few minutes." I tried to look confident. "I'm sure Ms. Dillon would want you to cooperate."

Ms. Varig frowned some more, reached for the phone, and punched in a few numbers. She drummed her fingers while waiting. "A Mrs. Grant is here and says Mr. Featherstone requested—"

She listened for a while, said, "Very well," and hung up. "Excuse me while I get the file."

While I waited for her return, I speculated on why she'd given in. Was that Amanda she'd spoken to? Did Amanda say I had been added to the approved list for getting what I wanted? Lucky me for having a brother who cozied with the boss lady. Probably too cozy, but I didn't want to think of that.

When the secretary returned, a thin folder in hand, she warned me that the file couldn't be removed from her office. I might look in it but not remove anything.

I decided that arguing would be fruitless and not in mine or Brad's best interests. I felt pleased even to see the thing and smiled to indicate I'd obey her instructions. While my left hand opened the folder on the edge of her desk, my right hand dove into my purse for my pen and small, spiral-bound notebook.

I went straight for the oldest papers, and as I hoped, the bottom sheet was a résumé. Using the shorthand system I'd taught myself at fifteen, I made notes of the jobs Ziegler had held before coming to Hammond Jewelers, together with the dates of same. The other papers—and there were few of them—were interoffice memos regarding salary raises. Apparently, Ziegler had been doing a good job. Bully for him.

I closed the folder, pushed it across the desk, and stuffed my notebook and pen back in my purse. "Thank you so much," I gushed. "I'm sure Mr. Featherstone will be most grateful."

I left before I wanted to throw up.

I didn't wait to go back to the office to read what I'd written. It being a few light-years since I'd taken my own shorthand lesson, I wanted to read it while it was still fresh in my mind. I wanted to write out the names of Ziegler's previous employers, instead of relying on my penciled squiggles. So I sat in my car, updating the entries and studying them.

His earliest employment had been quite a long time before. Judging by his age and the dates, I figured those were part-time jobs while in college. Then, two more listings of short duration, both in New York City and, finally, a responsible job with a Wall Street stock brokerage. I soon noticed a gap in time between that job and his coming to Hammond. What was he doing those two years? Either no one at Hammond asked before they hired him, or he had a logical explanation that satisfied the powers that be. Only not yours truly.

Since I didn't think the expense account would pop for my flying to New York, I was forced to rely on the telephone after all, and I had to hurry, as they were three hours ahead of us, time-wise. I pulled out my cell phone and called the Wall Street brokerage. Hours later—or so it seemed—and at least four different recorded messages instructing me to press this for that, I finally heard a human voice and asked my question about John Ziegler's employment there. Then I waited another hour or maybe ten minutes, while a person of the female persuasion checked the records. She would tell me nothing.

"I'm sorry, but this record is confidential, and I'm not allowed to give out any information."

"Look, all I want to know is did Mr. John Ziegler work for your company, when, and for how long?" I also wanted to know the circumstances under which he left, but I was certain she would offer none of that, even if I were to ask.

"I'm sorry. I'm not allowed to say anything." With that she hung up, thereby getting rid of me.

My inventive mind substituted conjecture for the missing facts, and since we suspected him anyway, at least I did, I decided the man had something to hide.

Furthermore, that explained the company's reluctance to divulge information. In these litigious times, it was dangerous to say anything derogatory about someone, even if true. Still, what made Ziegler leave, and where could I find out? I had zero contacts on Wall Street or in all of New York, for that matter. In fact, I knew of no one in the Bay Area who could help either.

Oh, yes I did. Debra Hammond worked for an investment advisor, a very savvy one to hear her tell it. I'd ask her.

Once more, I turned to my cell phone, called Debra, and asked if I could see her for a few minutes. I could.

As I drove, I perfected my pitch, and seated in her office, I put it to her as a serious matter, the results of which might enable us to nab her father's killer.

"Let me get this straight," she said. "You want me to find out why John Ziegler left his Wall Street firm with a confidential job folder and two years of, apparently, no gainful employment?"

"Right."

"I never heard of John Ziegler's previous job. He's been with Daddy's company for a long time."

"I don't want to cast unfounded suspicion on anyone, but as I'm sure you know, everyone is a suspect in your father's murder, and the sooner we know everything about their background, the sooner we can eliminate them."

"Well, I can't help you. I don't know anything. I never even knew he worked on Wall Street before he came here."

I had my second question ready. "Isn't your boss, Mr. Yarnow, a, shall we say, expert in the financial field."

"You think he might have heard of Ziegler and know why he left that Wall Street firm?"

"It's possible."

"Why would he want to provide that information to me?"

"Because he's your boss and would presumably like to help you."

She gave that a lot of thought. "As a matter of fact, he's in his office today." She paused. "He's really a very nice person. Maybe I could ask him."

"Please."

She shrugged and got up from her chair. "Wait here."

Frankly, I had serious doubts this would work, but I felt I had to try. I pictured Debra asking, "Do you know a John Ziegler who used to work on Wall Street?" and Mr. Yarnow saying, "No." End of conversation.

However, to my surprise, when Debra returned to her office, Mr. Yarnow came with her. Although Kevin McDonald had admitted that he and Debra were engaged, I wondered why she hadn't had more than a business relationship with Yarnow, who was a lot handier than someone who lived in L.A. Plus, one of the handsomest men I'd ever seen. Think an American Hugh Jackman. Tall, slender, wavy-haired, square-jawed. And polite as well as financially savvy.

"Mrs. Grant? Debra tells me you want to know about John Ziegler."

I sucked in my stomach and wished I wore heels and that lucky suit I'd worn to Los Angeles. "Yes," I managed to say in a not-too-shaky voice. "If you can help us, we'd be most grateful. There seems to be a gap in his employment record."

"I know about that, but I'm not sure how much I can tell you."

"We'd like to eliminate him as a suspect in Mr. Hammond's murder, so we've been checking his background, and this gap showed up."

"Can you promise me this will go no further?"

"If what you tell me has nothing to do with this case, then yes."

"Nevertheless, how can I know that what I say won't influence your judgment?"

I sighed, wondering how to continue. "We're looking for a murderer, someone with means, opportunity, and motive. We know that Ziegler, like everyone else who attended the banquet that night, had both the means and opportunity. What we need to know is if he had a motive. If something in his past gives him a motive to have killed Hammond, then I can't promise it will go no further. However," I added quickly, "that doesn't mean it will necessarily get back to you or that it will cause Ziegler to be arrested or even questioned."

He thought a few more minutes before answering. "All right. If he's guilty, I'd want to know I didn't stand in the way of bringing him to justice. Frankly, I don't think my information will help one way or the other."

We all seemed to take a deep breath, and then Yarnow said, "Ziegler was fired from his job in a Wall Street firm because of certain irregularities. He may have churned some accounts, which ended up costing the company a lot of money."

"That's it?" I hoped for a whale and got a minnow.

"I don't know all the details, but besides firing him, they banned him from working in the securities business ever again." He raised a hand. "Oh, by the way, his name wasn't Ziegler in those days. It was Zachary."

I let an uncomfortable silence go by. "Thank you very much. You've been extremely helpful, and I don't think that—even if what you've said becomes public knowledge—it will be traced back to you."

We shook hands, and he left Debra's office.

She looked at me with a question in her eyes.

So I answered it. "I don't think what we just heard points to Ziegler or Zachary, as the murderer. Still, I'll tell Brad and find out what he thinks."

"Will you let me know?"

"Of course."

We hugged, and I left. As I drove home, I wondered if this had been just another wild goose chase. I was becoming an expert at asking a lot of questions and getting zilch in return.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Back in the office the next day, I typed up my notes and placed them in the folder on Brad's desk. He didn't show up until after lunch, and then he deposited the other recorder on the secretary's desk.

I ignored it and followed him into his office, where he dropped into his chair, looking smug. "When you type my notes, you'll learn what I found out yesterday and this morning." Suspenseful pause. "I discovered that James Powell is just a little bit dirty."

"What do you mean 'dirty'?"

"James Powell isn't his real name. He did minor time in New York about ten years ago for embezzling."

"'Once a thief, always a thief,'" I quoted. I didn't like Powell, but that news surprised me. "And Kevin McDonald has been letting him buy diamonds? How come he didn't check him out before he hired him?"

"We'll ask him, but I'll bet the answer is he didn't. Lots of people are far too trusting and seldom check references before hiring employees."

"Surely, they wouldn't do that for someone handling funds and buying diamonds. McDonald seems too smart for that."

"I agree, but it happens all the time." He got up and paced the floor.

I plunked myself down in the chair in front of his desk. "So you're beginning to think Powell is our murderer?"

"Looks that way."

"Okay, what's his motive? He may have been embezzling from McDonald, but why kill the president of a rival jewelry company?"

"I don't know yet. We'll just have to find the link."

I grinned. "You haven't heard what I learned."

"About what?"

"About who, er, whom, er, Ziegler. Remember we said yesterday there were two smokers who might have been guilty, Ziegler being the other one?"

Brad returned to his seat. "So what did you find out?"

I gave him a long report about my conversations with Amanda's secretary, the person at the Wall Street brokerage, and Mr. Yarnow, not neglecting to point out my cleverness at going to Debra's office to do so.

I finished with, "You said James Powell isn't the man's real name. Well, Mr. Ziegler used to be Mr. Zachary, and he apparently stole money too."

Brad did some swiveling and shrugging. "That was before he went to work for Hammond. People often change their name in order to put the past behind them and get a fresh start. It doesn't make him guilty."

"You thought that implicated Powell," I reminded him.

"Just for the sake of argument, let's say you're right that the murderer is a smoker. Add that to what Epstein said, and what have we got?"

"There's something nasty going on in Harry's company, and Ziegler is the financial officer, so the arrow points to him."

"Maybe, but why would he kill Novotny?"

"I don't know. As marketing director, would Carl have known anything about the discrepancy in the records?"

"The first time Novotny came into our office, he said he suspected Ziegler of something shady, possibly buying up stock in hopes of a takeover."

"What has that got to do with diamonds and the diamond dealer? I don't recall Carl ever mentioning diamonds."

"Maybe not, but that doesn't mean he didn't stumble across them later."

"How? The videotape?"

"Right." Brad nodded. "Novotny already admitted he picked up Hammond's briefcase the night of the murder. He took it home with him." He got up and paced the floor again.

"Let's say he saw the videotape, and curiosity getting the better of him, he played it at his home. He sees some pictures of diamonds being purchased, and right away he figures out that something's screwy and decides maybe that's why Hammond got killed."

It was my turn to pace the floor. "That seems like a big leap of speculation."

"Not so big." He stopped in front of me. "If someone has been stealing diamonds or embezzling money, he might not hesitate to kill to keep from going to jail. Maybe Novotny saw an opportunity to blackmail him."

My voice rose an octave, and I pounded my hand into my other palm. "That's what he meant about doing something stupid." Yet, I didn't like the direction that was heading. Would Carl, nice, considerate Carl, do such a thing?

I couldn't stop. The idea made sense. "He tried to blackmail Ziegler and then realized the danger. Ziegler ransacked his house looking for the evidence, the videotape. Maybe threatened him too."

"Exactly. I think it finally dawned on Novotny that he might be in danger. The awards statue had been hard and heavy enough to kill Hammond, but the fireplace poker didn't do the job on him." He sat down again.

"Ziegler didn't find the videotape when he broke in again because I still had the briefcase in my car."

"Assuming," Brad reminded me, "that Novotny hadn't already removed the tape by then."

"Remember, he couldn't have done that because he accidentally switched briefcases with you." I leaned over the desk. "However, if Ziegler had found the tape, perhaps he wouldn't have had to kill Carl."

I began to feel guilty about having the briefcase. If only I had returned it to Carl that first night, Ziegler might have found the tape and not had to kill him. I didn't deliberately keep the briefcase. Carl left it in our office himself, but I had to plead guilty to forgetting to return it to him not once but twice. I groaned inwardly.

"The question," Brad said, "is who's got the videotape now? You returned the briefcase to Novotny the day of Hammond's funeral. Did Ziegler have to kill Novotny in order to get it from him?"

My head felt dizzy with all this new information, and I sat down. "Can you give this to the police? Is there sufficient evidence to arrest Ziegler?"

"I don't think so. In the first place, we don't know for sure Ziegler killed Hammond. Unless Ziegler confessed, even Carl didn't know that. He could have blackmailed him over the diamond business but not necessarily murder. Even if our theory is right and Novotny watched the tape and then tried to blackmail Ziegler, that isn't evidence of anything but falsifying records."

Another thought waltzed into my head. "Wait a minute. Carl supposedly returned the videotape to Amanda at the office. Could it be the same tape, or did he substitute something else?"

"I think we have to assume he borrowed a tape that really had photos of jewelry designs and let Amanda think she had the right one."

I popped up to pace the floor again. I hoped the carpeting was up to all our think-walking. "So, what can we do about it? Without the tape, there's no evidence to link Ziegler to any crime, much less murder."

"I think we can put some wheels in motion. We should ask Rose Hammond to demand an independent audit of all records, especially diamond purchase records."

"Rose hasn't a head for business. Just ask Amanda to do it."

"I will. The board of directors met Monday morning and officially made her president. She may have started an audit already."

He rose from the chair and reached for his suit coat but hadn't put it on when the phone rang. I picked it up. "Featherstone's."

I heard the voice of Kevin McDonald. After handing the instrument to Brad, I scooted into my own office and once more grabbed the extension in order to eavesdrop.

"Thanks for returning my call," Brad said. "Your secretary said you're still out of town."

"I'm at my Bay Meadows store, trying to straighten out the mess here. Powell, my manager, seems to have skipped town."

"You told us earlier that your diamond dealer didn't like Powell. Does his disappearance have anything to do with that?"

"Everything." McDonald's voice sounded harsh with anger and frustration. "Powell falsified invoices from Epstein to show that he purchased more diamonds than Epstein sold us. He added a string of zeros and pocketed the difference."

Brad let out a low whistle. "Bummer." He paused. "I don't mean to add insult to injury, but you might have spared yourself the grief if you'd done some checking on Powell before you gave him so much authority. We learned he did time a few years ago."

"Mr. Featherstone, we do check on people before we hire them. I don't do it personally, but I had implicit faith in the person who should have. Let me assure you, heads will roll over this. Heaven only knows where it's all going to end. I'm out hundreds of thousands of dollars."

"I'm sorry. I have just one more question, if you don't mind. Do you know of any possible connection between Powell and Hammond?"

"Do you mean that someone doctored Hammond's invoices too?"

"Looks that way, a damned unlikely coincidence."

"Personally, I don't see how they could be connected. As you know, we've been rivals for years. There hasn't been any love lost between our two companies or the employees."

Except for him and Debra Hammond.

Brad sighed. "Thanks anyway." He hung up the phone, and I did the same. I went back to his office in time to see him lean over and unlock the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk. He pulled out a large box and retrieved his .38 Smith & Wesson.

The only reason I knew the name of the gun was because he told me at the time he bought it—along with a smaller pistol—and got the license to carry a concealed weapon. I didn't like it, but he assured me he'd probably never use them. I hoped and believed they spent most of their life in that locked drawer. Now, he apparently thought one might be necessary. I shivered.

"I'm taking you off the case."

"What?" I hadn't expected that.

"How would it look if I let my own sister get killed? Business would fall off terribly."

"Your concern is touching." Still, I felt grateful he'd said something light to break the mood.

He put on his Humphrey Bogart accent and quoted from The Maltese Falcon. "'When a man's partner is killed, he's supposed to do something about it… Well, when one of your organization gets killed, it's bad business to let the killer get away with it. It's bad all around—bad for that one organization, bad for every detective everywhere.'"

I raised my hand. "Stop already."

"Just the same," he said in his normal voice, "I think you should stay home for a while, and let me handle things. Maybe Powell isn't our murderer, but I don't like the fact that he's missing." He stood and stared down at me. "I'll buy that someone, maybe in a fit of pique, grabs a heavy object and smashes Hammond over the head with it, but shooting Novotny means he's packing heat now, and that could be dangerous for a lot of innocent bystanders."

I felt ambivalent. I was pleased with his concern but not quite ready to go back to my former life. Besides, I had to know who killed Carl. I'm not a vindictive person, but I told myself no one could shoot a man I almost went to bed with and expect me to take it lying down. Something was wrong with that analogy, but I didn't pursue it.

I argued. "Brad, I can't not be on the case. Two heads are better than one, and you know I've come up with good ideas."

"Yes, you have, and I still intend to pick your brain. I'll call you every night, and we'll discuss everything."

"That's not enough."

"Gonna have to be. What if Novotny's murderer thinks you saw him? What if he's after you right now? You might be a target."

That possibility hadn't occurred to me, and I mulled it over. "You know if I saw him, I'd have told the police, and they'd have arrested him by now. The murder made all the news broadcasts last night, and they never said the police suspected anyone."

"The killer knows the police might not be releasing all the evidence. He can't take a chance. The safest thing for him to do is get rid of you."

"But—"

"No more arguments. I'm in charge here, remember? You don't get to make the rules in my bailiwick." He walked toward the door. "I'm going to Hammond's headquarters now to find out about the audit and also look at every damn videotape in the place."

"What good will that do? Whoever killed Carl must have it already."

"Maybe, but there's also the possibility Novotny hid it at the office. What better hiding place for a videotape than among a bunch of other videotapes?"

I liked that idea. "Works for me." If we were smart, we'd solve the case quickly, and then I wouldn't be under house arrest for long.

Brad stopped at the door with his hand on the knob. "You can stay here the rest of the day, but I want you to leave right at five o'clock, and go straight home, and stay there. Got it?"

"Gotcha." I waved good-bye. I didn't see any need to tell him I wouldn't necessarily obey the order.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I did plan to go home at five o'clock, just as instructed, but it didn't work out that way. I wanted to type up all the notes for the files, and the sheer number amazed me: McDonald's visit to our office, plus his later phone conversation, my trip to Los Angeles and conversations with Leibowitz, the waiter, and Mr. Woo, and the telephone contact with Mr. Epstein. That didn't even take into account what we'd learned about Ziegler and Powell during our investigation into their shady pasts.

Being busy kept me from thinking about Carl, even though I had to insert a page in the file that detailed my finding him and the subsequent question and answer session with the police. I skimmed over it, leaving the details for Brad to fill in later.

At three, realizing I hadn't had any lunch, I decided to go down to the coffee shop and get something substantial enough to stand-in for dinner. I ordered a salad (making up for my excesses of the day before) and had barely begun eating when Velma Edison appeared. She trapped me in my booth and wanted to know everything about the murder.

I understood her curiosity. Photographs of our building, the hallway outside our door, and even of me, had been front page news in San Ricardo's daily newspaper and even rated prominent space in the San Francisco Chronicle. So I tried to accommodate her as much as possible without falling apart. This time, I had no need to invent an interesting case for Brad. Reality had overshadowed anything I could have made up.

"That must have been so thrilling," she said.

Thrilling to find the dead body of someone you knew? "How about horrible? Something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy." Not even her, although she was more nuisance than enemy. I certainly didn't hate her. I just wished she had more brains than your average bag of Doritos.

"Well, now, if there's anything I can do…?"

"Thanks." When I finally escaped and returned to the office, I found a message from my sister, Samantha, in Phoenix.

I returned the call and barely spoke before she said, "Livvie, I just heard. How awful."

"What did you hear? Who told you?"

"I'm down here visiting Mom and Dad, and Brad called me. He said you'd had a couple of dates with this Carl What's-his-name and were pretty shook up when he was killed."

"That's an understatement."

"He said you might want to come down here for a while. You can visit with the folks too."

"Brad means well, but as I already told him, I'm fine. My sole desire at this moment is to find out who did it and make sure he's arrested."

"Well, if you're sure you don't want to come…"

"I'm sure. Of course I'd love to see you, but now isn't the right time."

Samantha was prettier than I ever was. Or at least I thought so. However, she inherited the same nose and long legs, although she had two inches on me in the leg department.

"Actually," she said, "I didn't think you'd want to leave the scene of the crime so to speak. Even if you hadn't been the one who found the body, you'd want to be in the thick of things."

"I'm glad you know me that well."

"You were like that when we were kids, always involved in everything. I wasn't a bit surprised when you agreed to work for Brad whenever he needed someone. In fact, I think you should be a private eye too." She paused, and I grinned, even though she couldn't see me.

"But you must be careful. What are you doing right now?"

"Typing up reports." I didn't tell her Brad had taken me off the case and I should go home and not stay in the office. Instead, I asked about her current activities.

She always said she was happy being single but often urged me to remarry. After the two marriages, neither of which ended "happily ever after," I had no desire to marry for a third time. My brief madness with Lamar Grant left me with a magnum of angst. I kept his name, however, because it was short. Having to write "Olivia Featherstone" had become a chore I decided to forgo. Besides, working with Brad so much made it convenient to have a different last name.

We talked for at least an hour. After telling me about her own busy days and nights, she added, "Remember, if you need me, I could stay with you for a few days."

"Really, I'm fine." I assured her I would be all right and that her brother would protect me in the unlikely possibility that became necessary.

By the time we finished talking, darkness had begun to descend, and I had to turn on the light. I hit the save key on the computer and switched on the printer. While I watched the pages slither out of the top, I wondered when life would return to normal again. Images kept floating up from my subconscious mind, dancing around in strange patterns, and then disappearing. I felt on the verge of putting something together that would spell out exactly what had happened and who and why, but it eluded me.

My mind played "what if." What if Ziegler didn't take the videotape from Novotny when he killed him? On the other hand, what if the videotape contained nothing important after all? When the auditors completed their work, the irregularities would show up, and a tape of a diamond purchase wouldn't be necessary. Or could Ziegler change company records in such a way that even an audit wouldn't reveal what he'd done? McDonald apparently didn't mention getting a videotape from Epstein, yet he found out how Powell had swindled him with the same sort of scheme. An uncanny coincidence.

For some reason, Kevin McDonald's comment about no love lost between Hammond's company and his own lingered in my mind. Then the two thoughts merged. If no love, how about some other connection?

Ziegler and Powell both stole from their companies in the same way. Maybe they worked together, and one of them killed Hammond because he found out. Brad said Powell had served time in New York. Presumably he lived and got himself arrested there. Ziegler had worked for a Wall Street firm and Wall Street was located in New York. The two men could have met in that city and come west to hatch their scheme in California.

I liked that scenario. A smile took over my face. I felt proud of myself for figuring it out. Now, I just needed the proof. Powell had already skipped town, according to McDonald. Would Ziegler be next? Brad would have to be nimble to nail him. Or did Ziegler plan to tough it out and hope he'd covered his tracks well enough?

I picked up my cell phone and pressed the button for Brad's cell. No answer. I fumed. How dare he not have his cell phone on when I needed him? I visualized the thing ringing away in Amanda's living room while they were otherwise occupied elsewhere in her apartment. Or maybe not.

I glanced at my watch and saw it was a little after six. Where had the time gone? The very thought made me stop, and I let nostalgia sweep over me. Stephen had always turned that question into a joke we shared. I'd say, "Where has the time gone?" and he'd say, "Ticktock." And we'd laugh.

I came back to the present when, after four rings, a voice told me to leave a message. That was just as well because, as I started to leave a message telling him about my spectacular discovery, I realized it amounted to no more than a hunch.

I put my phone down. I wanted desperately to know all the answers and got up and paced the length of the office, never seeing anything except the pictures in my mind's eye: Powell at the television studio, Ziegler at the funeral, Carl lying on the floor. I wanted to wipe out that last one, but, as in the childhood game when told not to think of the color red and suddenly red is all that fills your mind, it refused to go away.

I wouldn't think of that. I'd think of Brad scanning a few dozen videotapes, one by one, in hopes of finding the one Harry had made that fateful Saturday. Poor Brad.

And then two more thoughts merged. Carl had told me he'd see me at the office Monday morning. As early as I'd arrived, he'd arrived there ahead of me. He lay on the floor in front of the office door, shot moments before I stepped off the elevator, and they found no videotape on him, but what if…?

Of course. It could have happened that way. What if Brad had forgotten to lock our office door again and Carl just opened it? What if Carl had hidden the videotape, not at his own company office, because after all Ziegler might find it, but in this office?

My scalp tingled, and the hair on my forearms rose with a chill. I just knew I was right. Carl hid the tape somewhere in our office. Okay, wait a minute. What if Brad had locked the door? I'd had to unlock it to go inside and call 9-1-1, hadn't I? I remembered fumbling with the keys with shaking hands. Did I unlock it or not? I had no idea. For that matter, perhaps Carl had found it open but then locked the door behind him after hiding the tape. To check my hunch, I'd have to search for the tape right then. If necessary, I'd turn the place upside down.

Brad's instructions to go home at five o'clock crossed my mind. So it was after six. No big deal. Anyway, I'd been running around our little town at night for more years than he had, and I had no intention of stopping just because my overprotective kid brother thought I might be in danger. In my opinion, the murderer, if he was in the ladies' room when I went in the day before, had hidden himself carefully and knew I'd been far too preoccupied disgorging granola to see him. He knew I presented no threat and had no need to kill me.

The thought of finding the missing information went straight to my head, making me a little giddy with anticipation. I turned off the printer and stacked the finished pages into the Hammond file, which had grown to an inch thick, then looked around. If I were a videotape, I asked myself, where would I hide?

First, I checked every drawer of the desk but saw only the usual familiar items: pencils, pens, scratch paper, yellow Post-it Notes, a letter opener. Next, the credenza. Nothing but office supplies, boxes of file folders, letterhead and envelopes, telephone books, business directories, and maps of cities in California, Oregon, and Nevada. I pulled out the coffeemaker again and looked behind it. On the lowest shelf, clear in the back, I found an umbrella and a white sweater. So that's where I left those. Still, no videotape.

The filing cabinet took most of my time because I had to go through every file to make sure the tape wasn't stuffed between the papers or the hanging folders. Fortunately, at the moment, Brad's business had generated only two drawers of files.

So much for the outer office. Next, I'd tackle Brad's. But first, I needed to go to the ladies' room. I opened the door and discovered the hallway was dark, building lights turned down to dim (read, only a baby step from out). That happened at seven each night, when they locked the front doors. The gloom gave me pause because I still felt a little leery going into the room where Carl's murderer might have been lurking when I went inside to be sick. Yet, I had no choice.

I left our office door standing open to throw more light into the hall and dashed across, reached in, and flipped on the light. The room seemed empty, and my footsteps echoed, but I stooped down and made sure no legs showed in any of the stalls. I made short work of my errand, washed my hands, and grabbed two paper towels to dry them while I hustled the short distance back.

I went around my desk to drop the used towels in my wastebasket and then turned toward Brad's office, which I intended to tackle next.

I did a double take. Someone stood in the dark just inside Brad's office door.

My chest got tight. My breathing stopped. I backed up against the wall and reached for the doorknob, ready to flee into the hall. At the same time, reason told me to calm down. How could anyone have come in? I hadn't been gone more than two minutes and left doors open. I waited, standing very still, staring at the large black shadow. Finally, the truth dawned on me. That was no person. That was a coat hanging on the coat rack.

I forced myself to go forward again, reached a hand inside, and turned on the light in Brad's office. The sudden glare told me what I had begun to realize. The bogeyman had been nothing but an empty coat. I stood still for a long time, letting my heartbeat go back to normal, feeling relieved no one had watched my little charade. Nevertheless, I'd be glad to finish my chore and get out of the building.

I went to Brad's desk, sat in his chair, and opened every drawer, looking at everything inside, feeling guilty for trespassing even though I knew I had to search. Naturally, I couldn't open the drawer he kept his guns in, since it remained locked, and he, alone, had the key, but I felt certain he'd taken at least one of the weapons with him that morning. His briefcase sat in its usual place on the floor next to his desk, and I opened that too. No videotape.

Frustration and disappointment at my lack of success welled up in me. Why had I been so sure I'd find it? After I looked everywhere, it seemed incongruous to think Carl could have hidden the videotape there.

I sighed, shrugged, and turned off the light. Through the window, I saw part of the new Bay Bridge and the lights that climb the steel cables. Controlled by a computer, they present a unique light show every night. I felt my heart beat with pleasure.

Inside the office, once more the coat rack with its single garment turned into a sinister shadow. I smiled to myself, remembering how it frightened me thirty minutes earlier. Halfway through the connecting door, I had a sudden urge to look at the coat again. It seemed strange to me because Brad never used that rack. He fancied himself more as a Sam Spade than a Columbo with a battered raincoat as a prop.

I turned the light on again and looked at the garment more closely. Trench-coat tan, with all the required epaulets and flaps, its belt dangled from only one of the loops meant to hold it. The right-hand pocket bulged, and I put my hand inside. I came up with the object of my desire. The videotape.

I almost shouted out loud at the sight of it. I had been right! Carl had hidden the videotape in our office after all. And very cleverly at that, by simply leaving his entire raincoat on Brad's coat rack. I felt pretty clever for having doped it out. Brad would be so proud of me. I returned to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed his number again.

This time I left a message: "Brad, I found the videotape, and you'll never guess where." Pause to let him speculate fruitlessly.

"I found it in your office. In the pocket of a raincoat hanging on your coat rack. Luck had nothing to do with this. I reasoned that Carl had hidden it somewhere in here before I started to search. Now I'm going home to play it on my machine. Call me, or come over and see it for yourself."

I hung up the phone, turned off his light again, and put on my coat. The tape didn't fit in either my coat pockets or my handbag, so I hung the bag over my left shoulder, as usual, tucked the tape under my arm, picked up my set of keys, and got ready to leave.

Yet, something still nagged at me. Try as I would, I couldn't picture Powell and Ziegler working together. Both seemed like loner types, needing to be the boss. Nor could I picture them as homosexual lovers. Ziegler had a wife, and Powell struck me as the kind of man who flirted with everything in a skirt. He probably made out with most of them because of his good looks. If Powell had an accomplice, it would likely be a woman.

Amanda.

Yes. Powell never denied a relationship with someone in Hammond's company, only denied he had a motive for murder. Carl told me Amanda had a boyfriend before Brad came along, and maybe she didn't care for Brad at all, just kept him on the string to keep informed of his investigation.

Wait a minute. Amanda did the diamond buying. Why had I forgotten that important piece of the puzzle? Compared to Amanda, Ziegler had as much clout in the company as a telephone repairman. Amanda bought the diamonds and could easily falsify invoices or anything else. So what if she didn't smoke? Powell, her accomplice, did.

My face got warm. My scalp tingled as if my hair had become charged with electricity. That was it! Finally, I knew I'd made the right connections. I felt like jumping up and down and clicking my heels. Not that I could, being nothing like Gene Kelly or Donald O'Connor. Brad would be so surprised. I considered calling his voicemail again but decided to wait until I saw him. I might have to break my news to him gently. He might not want to believe in Amanda's guilt. Their affair could have blinded him to the truth.

I turned off the light and locked the door behind me. As I passed the ladies' room, something seemed different. I told myself to stop being paranoid about the place, but then I remembered I hadn't turned off the switch in there, and now no light spilled from under the door. My heart pounded. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that the murderer was hiding in there again, just as he had before.

CHAPTER THIRTY

I quelled my urge to run madly down the hall away from him, telling myself I was behaving like an idiot, and there was no one there. Reason told me the cleaning people probably turned off the light. But I hadn't heard the cleaning people, I argued. How could I, reason answered. I'd been busy making noise in Brad's office. In that case, why hadn't the cleaning people come in to clean his office?

By that time, I had reached the corner where I had to turn to go toward the elevators, but I couldn't make myself go there, punch the button, and wait. I wouldn't be a victim if I could help it.

I glanced around, dropped my keys into my coat pocket, pulled off my shoes and stuffed them under my arm, and turned toward the stairs. I knew how to get out without using the elevator. I opened the stairway door as quietly as I could and stepped inside. The concrete enclosure provided even less light than the main corridor, but I crept down, feeling the cold metal of the stairs through my nylons. Down, down I circled, occasionally glancing up to see if anyone followed me, praying that Parry had left her gallery back door open as usual. If not, I'd be trapped there, and not even screaming would help me.

Luckily, the gallery door opened to my touch, and I made a silent prayer of gratitude. I ignored its squeak and hurried inside. I tried to lock it behind me, and that's when I discovered that Parry's bad habit wasn't her fault at all. The lock didn't work, there being no bolt in the face of the door. Either she hadn't reported the problem to the building management, or the lack of security at her fire door didn't trouble her. Personally, I'd vote for the latter. Who would steal paintings or prints by unknown artists or the piles of junk some sculptor palmed off on an unsuspecting public as art? I couldn't visualize a burglar turning them into quick cash.

Of course, the door to the main lobby would be locked, I felt sure, but I had no intention of trying to get out that way. I headed for the large double doors at the back where deliverymen entered, the same door Brad and I had used a few days before. I tiptoed silently through the various rooms. But I didn't get there.

A loud male voice said, "Stop, or I'll shoot."

I know it's a cliché, but I can't help it. I'm trying to be honest here, and that's what the man said.

I whirled around and saw James Powell about fifteen feet from me, holding a gun in his right hand. I figured he was perfectly serious about shooting me. He'd probably shot Carl.

"What do you want?" A stupid question but all I could think of. When I was a child, I always played dumb when I found myself in trouble and had to face my mother. My motto was, "Don't admit anything until you know for sure she has all the facts."

"I want that videotape."

"What videotape?"

"Don't play games with me."

I stalled. "How did you get here?"

"I've been following you, waiting here in your building. I figured Novotny gave it to you."

"Then why did you kill him?"

"I thought he still had it then."

He'd just confessed to the murder! Why, oh why, hadn't I put a recorder in my pocket that night? I'd been lugging the thing all over California, and now, when I needed it, I'd left it upstairs.

"I don't have it." I felt foolish because maybe, even in the dim light, he could see the thing tucked under my arm.

He walked toward me. Any minute now he'd realize I had the tape and take it from me before I could stop him. And then what? I figured he'd kill me anyway. What was one more murder?

I backed up slightly and stood near the end of the wall. Another room with artwork loomed at my left. Could I duck in there before he got off a shot?

I don't know where all that bravery came from. Upstairs a few minutes before, I'd been as scared as a child in Disneyland's Haunted Mansion. Perhaps anger overcame the fear. I hated that he had killed Carl for no reason. I hated giving up the videotape that I'd been clever enough to find. I admit, I didn't care much for dying, but if death was inevitable, I might as well try to salvage something from it besides an obituary on an inside page of the Chronicle. If I could hide the tape, it might still bring him to justice.

I dropped my shoes and purse, ducked, and ran. Through that room and left around the next corner into another. He'd be right behind me if he knew which way I turned the second time, but maybe he didn't. I looked around wildly. That room held nothing but paintings, not even a chair to hide the tape under.

I waited and listened, heard footsteps to my right. I dashed for the next left turn into another room. That one held sculptures. Shapeless mounds of decorated orange plastic, duct tape-covered cantilevered creations and monster things made of pieces of steel presumably from old automobiles. I called them products of the John DeLorean School of Modern Art. I also saw the perfect hiding place: a wooden bed frame under which sat a pile of bricks. What the artist intended, I feared to imagine, but I didn't hesitate. I plunged the videotape into the mound on the floor where, unless you looked closely, it instantly became just another brick.

The footsteps came nearer, and by the time I straightened up and dashed for the next room, I felt him behind me. I heard the crack of a shot, but it was not as loud as the one I'd heard on Monday. Maybe he used a silencer.

But he missed me. Then another shot, this one pinging into the metal sculpture, the bullet hole undoubtedly improving it.

I sprinted for the back doors again but again had to change directions. I wondered how long the game of hide-and-seek could last. My luck was bound to run out sooner or later. Finding myself back in the sculpture room again, I stopped and crouched behind one of the ugly orange things, trying to slow down my thumping heart, hoping he wouldn't see me or hear me breathing like a steam engine. He came into the room, and I closed my eyes. I tried to curl myself into my original fetal size and waited. Seconds turned into hours.

"I know you're in here," he said. "Give me the tape, and nothing will happen to you."

Yeah, right.

I didn't move. I said mental good-byes to Brad and Samantha and wondered if I'd see both Stephen and Carl in heaven and have a lot of explaining to do.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I heard running footsteps and then Brad's voice. "Put it down, Powell." His voice was so hard and menacing, I hardly recognized it.

I opened my eyes and uncurled from my position. Then I looked up and saw them both. Powell stood between Brad and me, his face a mask, his gun pointed in my direction. Brad had his own .38 out, and Powell froze and slowly lowered his weapon to the floor.

"Good," Brad said. "Now kick it away." Powell complied, and the gun went sailing across the slick floor and landed near the far-right wall.

"It's all over, Powell. You're gonna get a long prison term for embezzlement. If they don't convict you of murder first."

Powell, who when I first met him looked capable of having inspired the word "macho," now sounded like a schoolboy caught in a lie. "You can't pin that on me. I didn't murder anyone."

I spoke up, angry at his deception. "Oh, yes you did. You admitted to me just a few minutes ago that you killed Carl Novotny."

"I didn't admit it. It's your word against mine, because I didn't do it. Amanda killed him, just like she did Hammond." I glanced over at Brad, but if it came as a surprise to him, his face didn't reveal it.

Powell kept talking. "I told her not to. I said if we waited for the right time, we could walk away with enough money to last the rest of our lives. But no, she had to go and kill him. Same with Novotny. She did it, not me."

"You bastard!" The voice belonged to the woman in question, and in a moment, she came out of the shadows and into the room where one of the overhead lights bounced off her shiny black hair and the cream-colored suit she wore. She might kill people, but she sure had style.

She also had a weapon. I hadn't seen her do it, but she apparently picked up Powell's from the floor, because when I looked toward where I'd seen it last, it was no longer there.

"Now you drop it," she told Brad.

When he set his on the floor, Powell found his voice again.

"Amanda, what are you doing here? I can handle this without you."

"I noticed." The sarcasm in her voice was as thick as cold molasses.

Brad said, "You followed me here?"

"Of course. I've kept as close an eye on you as you have on me. When I saw you come tearing out of your apartment tonight, I decided it was time to act."

She turned back to Powell. "And I'm just in time, it appears, to keep you from sending me to the gas chamber, you lying son-of-a—"

"So what if I—" Powell argued. "I mean, it doesn't matter what he thinks. Now that you're here, we can—"

Amanda turned to Brad. "I didn't plan to kill Harry. His accusations about the missing diamonds took me by surprise, and I just reacted." She looked toward Powell. "But you… You killed Novotny in cold blood, and it wasn't necessary."

"We needed the tape," Powell insisted. "You told me Novotny said it had the proof, and he was blackmailing you."

"I could have handled him. I let him think I needed the tape, but I didn't."

I couldn't help interrupting. "What about the auditors? When they look over the books, they'll find out what you've done and discover the diamond thefts."

She gave me a look that said I had the intellectual capacity of bacteria. "Numbers can be made to lie. Now that the board has made me president, I could have manipulated the audit. Novotny didn't even know for sure I killed Hammond. He just wanted to be promoted, to show his ex-wife he wasn't a failure after all."

She uttered a quick laugh, and then her anger returned, intensified. She looked at Powell as if she could cause lightning to strike him with a single thought. "You spoiled it all because you couldn't wait and trust me."

Powell slowly moved toward her. "When I told you how we could change the invoices, you leaped at the idea, just as eager as I was. We were going to retire to Fiji. I've got the tickets. We can leave tonight."

"You still don't get it, do you?" Her voice became almost a snarl. "I could have had everything, not just a piece of it. The whole company, not just some of the diamonds." She backed away from him. "Don't come any closer. I'm not on your side any more. I'm not running away. I have what I want right here."

"But Novotny…" Powell pointed to me. "She knows I killed him."

Amanda's voice turned silky sweet. "Well, you did, didn't you?"

Powell caught on at last. "You mean you're going to stay here and just deny everything, blame it all on me?"

"No, you don't have to stay. You can leave right now. I won't stop you."

"I need the money. You've got that somewhere. I can't get to it without you."

"What do you want, Jim? Your money or your life?"

Throughout the conversation, Brad had been silent and watchful, and I wished he'd do something. I still had the feeling I wouldn't live to eat another Dove Bar because in the movies, when the bad guys started telling you what they did and how they did it, it meant they didn't think you'd live long enough to use the information.

Finally, Brad came forward. "Nobody's going to get away. I called the police from my car before I came in. They should be here any minute."

That information turned Powell into a madman. He leaped at Amanda and tried to wrestle the gun away from her. Brad vaulted after him but was too late. The gun went off. Powell jerked backward and clutched at his stomach before he sank heavily to the floor.

I turned my head away, hoping I wouldn't be sick again. I stared instead at Amanda.

She seemed surprised at what she'd done, and Brad used her moment's hesitation to step in and take the gun from her hands.

She looked up at him, her facial expression changing to one of softness and vulnerability. An Academy Award performance, all right.

"Brad, darling, help me. I didn't mean to kill him. It was an accident. You know that. You'll tell them it was self-defense. He tried to kill me."

Brad dropped the gun and kicked it away, not needing it to keep Amanda under control. "Maybe, but what about the others?"

"You heard Jim. He admitted he killed Novotny."

"But you killed Hammond."

"We quarreled. Actually, he threatened me." I could tell she was improvising as she went along.

"He went crazy when he found out about the diamonds. He choked me. I only wanted to stop him, to buy time to get away. I saw the box of statues… I didn't hit him hard, but the statue…so heavy and sharp…" She lifted her pale, perfect face close to Brad's and even got a tear to glisten in her eye. "I should have called for help. I know that now. I was frightened. I panicked."

Brad waited until she finished and let another beat go by.

"And what about me? A moment ago you planned to kill all of us. Because as long as one of us remains alive, your story is worthless."

"Not you," she pleaded. "I would never kill you. I love you. We can go to Fiji together. Is that what you want?"

"I want justice. Hammond and Novotny are both dead. Someone has to pay for that."

"Not me. You don't mean me. You love me."

"Maybe I do, but I'm not going to play the sap for you. I'm sending you over."

Shweetheart. He should have said shweetheart.

Then the police arrived.

* * *

The next afternoon, I poured coffee for Brad, brought it into his office, and sank into the chair in front of his desk. "I liked being a private investigator," I told him.

He took a sip before answering. "You did good, but—"

"Admit it," I said. "You didn't know Amanda killed Harry Hammond before I did."

"Of course I did. Why do you suppose I hung around her? I needed proof, tried to find a chink in her armor."

"You could've fooled me. I thought you were trying to find a chink in her underwear."

"Olivia!" He tried to sound shocked. "What a suggestion." Yet, he couldn't help grinning.

"And I'm the one who found the videotape."

"But who left the office door unlocked so Novotny could leave it there?"

Like he'd done it deliberately to make things easier for me.

His statement made me think of Carl. "I hate to think he could blackmail anyone."

"If Amanda had known Hammond's briefcase held an incriminating tape, she could have taken it with her after she killed him, just like the napkin, and Carl would be alive today."

"Carl said he found the briefcase in the reception area, not the room where Harry was killed."

"I figure he lied about that, didn't want to admit to you that he'd removed it from the murder scene. Like Amanda said, he only wanted a promotion. When he saw what the videotape contained, he could have turned it over to the police, and they would have arrested her, but where would that leave him? Ziegler would have taken over the company in her place. Instead, he forced her to make him her executive assistant. Then, after he established himself as next-in-command, he might have turned her in anyway."

"I can't believe he'd do something like that."

"We'll never know for sure. At any rate, he paid for his mistakes."

I heard the outer door open and got up to see who entered. Rose Hammond.

"Rose, what brings you here? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I wanted to bring a check for Brad, to pay him for finding Harry's murderer."

"You could have put it in the mail."

"No, I wanted to do it in person."

"Well, come inside then." I waved her toward Brad's office.

He got up and came around his desk to take her hand. "Come in. Sit down."

"Just for a little while." Rose sat, opened her alligator handbag, and brought out a check. She handed it to him.

Brad glanced at it briefly, set it down on his desk, and thanked her. "I'm glad we could help."

"You're too modest." She turned to look at me. "You too. Don't tell me you didn't help a lot in the investigation, involve yourself in everything. You even put your life in danger."

"Not really." I affected modesty. "I actually…" I didn't want to say "enjoyed it," but I had to admit I'd had the most exciting time of my life.

"I hope this tragedy will serve one good purpose anyway. To renew our friendship. I've missed you."

"I've missed you too." I meant it.

She stood up, dropped my check on the desk, and put her arms out to me. We hugged. "I'll call you soon." Then she shook hands with Brad and left.

I plopped down in the chair and picked up the check. The number itself wasn't that large, but some nice zeros followed. I waved it in Brad's face.

"So are you going to sit around your house being rich?" he asked.

"No. Like it or not, as I said, I should become your partner. I think I'm ready."

"But what about your charity work, your bridge teaching, travel?"

"Oh, I'll still do my charity work and play bridge, but compared to this business, the rest is a little boring."

"You'll have to come in every day, learn a lot, work hard."

"I like hard work when it's really interesting."

"Besides, it's so erratic: chicken today, feathers tomorrow. And even when we get clients, sometimes they don't pay on time, or at all."

"I have an independent income." I waved the check again. "And a nice cushion besides."

"Worst of all, it can be dangerous."

I leaned back in the chair and smiled. "Don't be shy, Brad. Tell me what you really think."

He burst out laughing, leaned across the desk, and gave me a high five.

The outer door opened again, and a young woman came in.

"The employment agency sent me. I'm Tiffany."

I saw a tall Barbie doll who was as beautiful as Amanda Dillon but blonde. She was also skinny. Where were all those obese children I kept hearing about? Tiffany looked as if she threw up for a hobby.

As I said good-bye and walked out the door, I winked at Brad. "Don't forget my number."

* * * * *

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* * * * *

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Phyllis's credits include nineteen published romance novels and several short stories and articles to national magazines. She was an RWA Golden Heart finalist, won the San Diego Book Award, and was a finalist in St. Martin's Press Malice Domestic Mystery Contest. She has also written a novella in a Kindle Worlds series and three novellas about Sherlock Holmes under the name P.J. Humphrey.

Phyllis's non-fiction book was published by John Wiley & Sons. She has ghost-written three non-fiction books and had two 30-minute radio plays produced by American Radio Theater.

She's listed in Who's Who, a member of Mensa, married, and the mother of three children.

To learn more about Phyllis, visit her online at: http://www.phyllishumphrey.com/

* * * * *

BOOKS BY PHYLLIS A. HUMPHREY

Olivia Grant Mysteries:

Dead in the Water

Dead Men's Tales

Other works:

Free Fall

Finding Amy

Southern Star

Stranger in Paradise

Cold April

North by Northeast

The Green Bough

Tropical Nights

Charade

Flying High

Masquerade

Roman Holiday

Choices

False Pretenses

Romance of my Dreams

Once More with Feeling

* * * * *

SNEAK PEEK

If you enjoyed this Olivia Grant Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another exciting novel from Gemma Halliday Publishing:

DIGGING UP BONES

by

AIMEE GILCHRIST

CHAPTER ONE

I knew exactly two things about Texas. One, it was the last place on Earth I wanted to die. Two, it smelled like ass. Cow ass, if you want specifics. I didn't particularly want to live in Texas either, but dying there, well, that was seriously not on my list of things to do.

But I didn't move to Birdwell, Texas, population five hundred and sixty-two, to hop on the death train. I moved there because of the police who stormed my apartment. Because of the day I began to suspect that my fourth, and believe me final, engagement might not work out after all.

A life full of garden parties and tennis lessons had allowed me to grow into a woman capable of…nothing. I had no practical skills. I couldn't cook. I didn't clean, and I wasn't much of an organizer. I didn't like hosting parties, and I was too old for the pageant circuit. In shorthand, I was a big fat loser at life. I had exactly one thing I could be relied on to do right every single time.

I would always be able to find the worst man in any room. If there were a class-A loser to be found in the crowd, my libido would lead me right to him.

The last in a long line of freaks was Lenny De Carlo, the guy the police had come to haul away the day they ransacked my place.

Lenny, who taught math at a private college-prep academy, had been having the raunchy sex that he wasn't having with me, with his nubile, blonde students. So Lenny was going to the lockup, and I was going to Texas.

As it happened, I would regret the choice, but that's the story of my life—a lot of impulsively made choices that I lived to regret at leisure.

I was done with men. Once and for all. No one who made choices as bad as I did should ever be allowed to marry, reproduce, or in fact, even risk it by having sex at all. A place like Birdwell was bound to be populated almost entirely by men with names like Dwight who needed extensive bridge work. I could hardly fall to temptation if there was no one to be tempted by. The icing on the cake was, as far as I knew, I had nary a single ex-boyfriend in all of the Lone Star State.

So Birdwell, Texas, and the bosom of my aunt Penny, it was.

Actually, Penny was my mother's cousin, but I'd been raised regarding her as an aunt, and she was the only extended family I had. She'd requested my presence in Texas, and here I was. My primary purpose was to escape the specter of Lenny, the statutory rapist, but I was also glad to see Penny again. It had been more than a dozen years since we'd really spoken, and it was time.

I navigated a lonely stretch of desert highway, two lanes of wind and nothingness, leading into Birdwell, Texas. I'd purposely made a travel itinerary that allowed me to stop in Denver to visit my first fiancé, Eric. We'd loved and lost as teenagers, breaking up at nineteen when I discovered that, while we were both experiencing a burgeoning sexuality, we were also both burgeoning in the same direction.

Because I'm the biggest idiot who ever lived when it came to the less fair sex, my first indication was when I came home early and found him prancing around my apartment in my lingerie singing "It's Raining Men" in exaggerated falsetto. That was the end of that wedding.

I passed a few houses buried far from the road, but for the most part the cows and I were the only signs of life for miles around. Finally, a few buildings rose in the distance. There was no question what was ahead.

Birdwell.

My stomach dropped hard, like the first plummet on a roller coaster. I was really afraid. I was afraid of a strange little town full of strange people in big hats. I was afraid of seeing Penny after all these years.

I also realized, as I got close enough to see what I was getting into, I was afraid to tell Penny that I definitely wouldn't be staying. Penny had written me a letter requesting my help with a problem, asking me to stay for an indeterminate amount of time. She'd offered few details, and I'd offered no resistance, but now that I was here, I could safely say there was no chance I would be doing that. A state-sanctioned sign just outside of town announced that I'd indeed entered Birdwell, Texas, pop. 562. A larger sign, painted by hand on a weathered piece of white wood, read, Birdwell, Texas. 562 born-and-bred Texans.

Well, yee-haw.

Sadly, Birdwell was nothing more that a dot on my GPS that offered no information except the location of the Birdwell Municipal Schools and the Birdwell Post Office. I figured once I got into town I'd just look for Penny's street, Lovers Lane. A town the size of Birdwell couldn't possibly have that many streets.

It only took me a few seconds to realize where I'd gone wrong with my plan. The streets in Birdwell had no names. Or, at the very least, they had no street signs. I drove aimlessly past a hair salon, that apparently also contained the post office, a hardware store, a western-wear store that looked like it was made out of a Tuff Shed, and a library, before I pulled to a stop in front of a restaurant called the Home Cooking Café.

I put the car in park and debated whether or not I wanted to know where I was badly enough to talk to strange people. But there was no point in sitting there all day, and there was nowhere for me to go until I asked. I threw open my door and got out, surveying the street. The Home Cooking Café was a little worse for the wear, the stucco building cracked and the paint faded. Liberal amounts of blackened smoke damage darkened the area near the roof.

The neighborhood bar next door shared a building with a general store. The school, across the street, looked like something from Little House on the Prairie, complete with the rooftop bell. The last building in my line of sight was a motel, windows boarded.

I was too intimidated to go inside Home Cooking Café, visions of Deliverance and Cabin Fever dancing in my head. I had no desire to be made into a sex toy or bitten by a weird pancake-obsessed kid with a pageboy. So, I like stupid B movies. Sue me.

The West Texas air was hot, and the slightest hint of uncomfortable wetness clung to my skin like a desperate guy at a bar. Now that I was out, I had no idea what to do next. The bell above the door in the restaurant jangled, and two men strolled out, deep in conversation. The younger of the men mumbled something and headed back inside. The other man stopped on the broken concrete and stared at me, as though I was going to provide him with a reason for my sudden appearance in Birdwell. I was guessing they didn't get a lot of visitors.

He looked middle-aged, maybe fiftyish, with a shaved head and a face like one of those ugly pug dogs. Smashed in, cocked to the side quizzically, with moist blue eyes bugging out of his head. We sized each other up for several seconds. He slapped a massive straw cowboy hat on his head and turned away from me.

I blurted out, "Do you know where Lovers Lane is?" I hated my GPS. Hated it. It was useless, and it was making me talk to this weird man in front of a restaurant that smelled like Spam.

"It's just past Gas."

I took a moment to consider that before responding. Because really. What could I say? "Lovers Lane has a flatulence problem?" I requested carefully.

His pug eyes blinked slowly, and he regarded me as though I was the one saying something ridiculous. Slowly, he said, "Lovers Lane is about two blocks up on the right. Just past the gas station." He pointed very slowly to the south.

"Oh." Well, now I felt stupid. "Thanks."

I still didn't quite understand the way he'd phrased it until I reached the gas station up the street and saw it was literally named Gas. When there was no competition, creativity probably wasn't a requirement.

Mr. Pug had neglected to mention that just a few feet from the main drag, Lovers Lane ceased to be a paved road. Maybe that was just a given around here. Gritting my teeth, I jumped and jolted my way down the street until I found my aunt's address painted on a mailbox that was shaped like a can of beer, with the lid as the opening.

Yeah, this was Penny's house.

Penny had a way about her. She was different from Long Island ladies. When I was a preschooler, my parents had enrolled me in the kind of kindergarten that required your name to be on a waiting list while still in utero. One of the very first assignments we were given was about our extended family. I had none. Both of my parents were only children whose parents had long passed away. I had no aunts, uncles, or cousins.

I was without resources for my very first big project. For years, I fancied that what happened next was born out of my parents' love for me. It was more likely that my mother was worried if I started making waves so early in the year, I might lose my coveted spot forever, and then what would she tell her friends?

But for a while I thought it was love. Story of my life, am I right?

At any rate, for the sake of the assignment my mother produced Penny. All I knew at the time was that Penny lived in some remote corner of the Texas wilds, which to me, born and raised on Long Island, might as well have been the moon.

I doubted that my ultra-conservative parents, truly named Ward and June, approved of a woman who remained unmarried into her fifties, liked to arm wrestle strange men for money, and wore three-inch, cherry-red Lee Press-On Nails. But they had been stuck with her after the initial contact, because I was wild for her. She taught me to roll my own cigarettes, apply fake eyelashes, and use curse words as nouns, verbs, and adjectives.

Every summer, my parents would bring her up to our summer home in Port Victoria, Canada, to stay for two weeks. There she would proceed to teach me a number of things they would spend the rest of the summer trying to break me of. But to me, she was a young girl's hero.

Around middle school, she stopped coming to Port Victoria and rarely answered my letters. I wasn't sure if my parents had stopped inviting her for fear that I'd look to her for fashion tips, or if she'd just gotten bored, as she was wont to do. Either way, I hadn't seen her, and little heard from her, since I was twelve or thirteen. Until her letter came out of the blue. But if I had spent time picturing the house of the woman I had known, it would most certainly look like this.

I drove up her little dirt driveway and came to a stop next to an aged green Gremlin. There was also a Ford Fairlane up on blocks near the side of the house. Charming.

I pulled to a stop on the dirt patch that qualified as a driveway, deciding to leave everything in the car since I would not be staying long and certainly not indefinitely.

Penny's house was short and squat, tilting sideways where it was sinking into the ground. Made of faded pinkish stucco, the exterior of the house was sun damaged and falling off in huge chunks. Underneath was an inexplicable layer of chicken wire. Then again, I knew nothing about stucco, having never seen it before this trip, so for all I knew, chicken wire came standard.

The steps to the house had once been painted red but had faded like an old Coca-Cola sign. I raised my hand to knock and noticed the door was slightly ajar. Penny was clearly expecting me already, even though I was early. I knocked and pushed open the door at the same time.

The place was a mess. There were papers and clothes thrown everywhere. No one came to greet me. "Hello." My voice seemed to echo off the walls. "Aunt Penny? It's me, Helen."

Nothing.

I'm a true-crime author. The perfect career for me, the person who had obtained and lost literally hundreds of jobs, because I had little call to deliver to anyone's expectations. I was great at interviews when the subject wasn't personal, and I was good at research. I covered historical crimes, and those skills were enough. People who were dead didn't mind if I had absolutely no life skills. My agent and editor weren't in love with me, but they were in love with the steady income my books provided, so I was tolerated, even with my sporadic behavior and constant missing of deadlines. I refused to believe that my father, author of numerous self-help tomes, had been any kind of influence on my publishing contract. However, my believing it didn't make it true. But I could still hope it was.

My agent, Eleanor Goldman, was always trying to get me to write about a crime less than fifty years old. She swore I could be the next Ann Rule. She also steadfastly ignored my claims I didn't want to be. Overall, I enjoyed the job, especially the research. But reading about so many crimes had, over time, made me a little jumpy.

Penny's house was seriously giving me the creeps. I made a cursory inspection of the two bedrooms and the bathroom. Each room had that same look of wild disarray. No one left a house like this on purpose. Where was Penny?

Maybe out in the backyard or down the street at a neighbor's?

I pushed open the kitchen door. If Penny were at a neighbor's, she surely would have heard me scream when a fat yellow cat jumped off the table and launched aggressively at my face. We had a short but violent argument, which I nearly lost, about who would retain possession of my head, before the cat dropped to the ground and ran from the kitchen. I was left stunned on the threshold of a circa 1960s kitchen, done up in rusted chrome and sea-green Formica.

A few days' worth of dishes were scattered in the sink, but nothing else seemed amiss. The cat's empty bowl sat in the corner of the room. An empty cereal bowl, lightly crusted with old corn flakes, rested on the table next to Penny's newly opened pack of Lucky cigarettes and her red imitation-leather handbag.

Now I was really starting to worry.

I peeked into the backyard, but no one would go out there of her own volition, as the weeds had grown up to the window. On the way back into the bedroom for another look around, I noticed Penny's desk. There in the corner sat an ancient black wall phone and an equally aged answering machine. It was blinking a red number two. I was stunned anyone still had an answering machine like that. But then dread set in, and I hit the button.

The first message, left yesterday afternoon, was nothing but dead air, followed by a long beep. Then it was my message from the night before, sounding tired and stupid. Penny had not checked her messages in two days, and it was time to get some answers.

I checked my phone, discovered I had no signal, and then crossed back to the desk. Gingerly, I picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1, not at all sure if that was the right emergency number for backwoods Texas. My hands were shaking, and I needed to calm down or the person on the other end would never understand me. I snatched up a cigarette pack on the desk and held it up to my nose, taking in a deep breath, letting just the smell of nicotine roll over me. I'd stopped smoking last year, but that was before people started disappearing. I wasn't ready to start again, but the smell of a cigarette, even a bad one, calmed me.

"Thelma Sue's." A heavily accented voice picked up on the other end. I was momentarily struck dumb, opening my mouth and then closing it again. "Hello?" She drawled.

Okay, I would just simply call on the locals for advice. I slid the pack into the pocket of my jeans and took another steadying breath. "I'm sorry. I was looking for the police. Can you tell me how to reach them?"

"Sure, honey, you got the right place. This is Thelma Sue's Hair Extravaganza, and I also run the emergency switchboard when the Tallatahola girls get them some lunch."

The what at the what? I lost my train of thought for a moment, but it came barreling back when the cat hunkered into the living room and hissed at me. "I need a policeman here at my aunt's house. I think something's happened. Something bad."

Thelma Sue sounded incredulous. "Lordy, honey, are you sure?" She didn't wait for my confirmation. "Who is your aunt?"

"Penny Cadgell. Do you call out the officers, or do I have to ring some kind of special bell in the town square, because I really need some police out here."

Now Thelma Sue sounded annoyed. "Well, honey, we don't have any police here in Birdwell."

Panic reared its ugly head. "What do you mean you don't have any police? What do you do when people commit crimes?"

Thelma Sue was now amused. I was certain that I had almost covered the whole spectrum of her emotional range. "Honey, we don't have crimes here." She paused. "Excepting that you count all the drunks that come outta Dwight's. Well…and there was that one time that Horace Ledbetter's wife, Mary, hit him over the head with a half-thawed turkey after he was three hours late at some football party last Thanksgiving, but we all thought he sort of deserved it, know what I mean?"

"Look, you must have somebody who serves in some sort of legal capacity to round up the drunks and confiscate the turkeys."

"Oh. Well, you got to call Aodhagan." Obviously, I should have just started the conversation with this question, instead of irrelevant ones like, Can I talk to an actual law enforcement official?

"What's Aid Again?" I requested, fishing in Penny's drawer for a pen, picturing some organization that would only help those they'd already helped before.

"Well, he's the volunteer sheriff."

CHAPTER TWO

I couldn't have been more dumbstruck if she'd announced I needed to call the local preschool, as they were currently serving as junior crime fighters.

"What?"

"Aodhagan MacFarley. He's the volunteer sheriff. He's got a couple of volunteer deputies too, but if I was you I'd ask for Aodhagan because Earl, his right hand man, he ain't never been the same since he stood too close to the fireworks display Fourth of July, 1989."

"How do you spell Aid-again?" I asked, defeated.

This seemed to amuse her almost as much as when I had requested to speak to the police. "Lordy, honey, I don't know. Who does? Lots of A's and O's and H's. I don't know what his mama and daddy were thinking about. I swear to you that his mama, Lola, she must have still been high from those birthing drugs. She had her daughter at home, all natural, and they done named her Jane. Now what does that tell you, I ask you?"

I could not have answered, even if I'd wanted to, because Thelma Sue didn't wait for a response.

"I don't know so much about Lola anyway, you know. When she had Jane at home, she did it on purpose with some woman with a funny name, in Junior Hudley's horse trough. I mean I had Bubba Dick at home, but that was an accident seein' as he came so quick-like."

She continued, without even seeming to pause for a breath. "I had Willis and Loula at the county general, like most folks do. Or in Doc Holiday's clinic, but he don't care much for delivering the babies. He says it's too messy. Sometimes of course he has to, like with Bubba Dick, what I had in the basement right next to Al's new tool set, as I couldn't get back up the stairs after he started coming. Plus, the county general's all the way in Tallatahola."

She spoke with confidence that I had any idea where Tallatahola was and felt her extreme pain at having any child named Bubba Dick. Let alone having one in the basement, next to her husband's new tool set. Actually, I might have been assuming too much in thinking that Al was her husband. There were so many people involved in her little narrative, Al could have been Junior Hudley's trough-less, tool-loving horse for all that I knew.

"Look, how do I reach this guy?"

There was a pause on the other end. Thelma Sue was no doubt picking her teeth. "He's down at the elementary today."

I thanked her and ended the conversation before I was treated to the whole convoluted history of the Birdwell early education system and its effects on Willis, Loula, and little Bubba Dick. After I had already hung up, I realized that I had forgotten to request the phone number of the school before desperately escaping from the ruthless jaws of Thelma Sue.

I dug through Penny's desk again until I found the phone book. Actually, it was more like the phone pamphlet, and to my relief, there was only one school in town. I also looked up Aodhagan MacFarley while I was letting it ring and wrote down the proper spelling under the school's number.

"Birdwell Schools. Arletta speaking." Another heavy Texas accent answered, excited enough that she could have been answering the phone, I just won ten million dollars! Arletta speaking.

I didn't know if this Aodhagan guy worked there, was visiting his kid, or just liked to hang around elementary schools staring at other people's children. "I'm looking for Aodhagan MacFarley."

"Mr. MacFarley is reading to the kids right now and isn't to be disturbed."

"Yeah, well this is an emergency. So if you have any other literate staff members, you might have them replace Mr. MacFarley, and ask him to come to the phone."

My insult escaped her notice but not my mistake. "Mr. MacFarley isn't a staff member." She was obviously sorely scandalized. "He's the mayor."

"Great, now he's the mayor too?"

Her cheery façade was definitely fading. "Are you saying that he's a bad mayor?"

"What? No! I just need a police officer."

"Well, why didn't you just say so at the beginning? I'll call up to the office. You just hold on right there."

After all my trouble, I wasn't likely to just hang up, so I waited, being generously provided with the Muzak version of "Careless Whisper," by Wham, which was fine because, hey, "guilty feet have got no rhythm." Finally, the other end picked up.

"Aodhagan MacFarley." His voice was younger than I expected, calm, deep, and reassuringly official.

Now that he was on the line, I wasn't sure where to start. "My name is Helen Harding, and I was coming here to visit my aunt, Penny Cadgell, but when I got here, she was gone."

There was a long pause. "Well, maybe she's just gone to the store or something. Our older generation really does like to make a good impression when they have visitors."

I could feel myself starting to fray around the edges. I didn't have the capacity for dealing with…pretty much anything. I turned into a bundle of useless nerve endings the second someone turned on the heat. Hysteria bubbled up, and I worked hard to tamp it down. Some of it still escaped.

"She's not at the store," I pretty much screamed into the ear of poor unsuspecting Aodhagan MacFarley. "There are signs of a struggle, and she's left everything. Her purse and her cigarettes."

Apparently he knew Penny, since these appeared to be the magic words. "She left her cigarettes? How long do you think that she's been gone?"

"I don't know. I came in about thirty minutes ago, and right away I could tell that something was wrong, but I think maybe since last night because the message that I left on her answering machine was still an unheard message."

There was another long pause where I could hear the mayor/volunteer sheriff/elementary book reader talking in a muffled voice to someone else. He came back on. "I'll be there in about five minutes. Don't let anyone in until we get there, and don't touch anything else."

I stood in the middle of Penny's living room for maybe two minutes. Should I go outside and wait? No, he said not to let anyone in. That meant stay inside. Also, how would I know Aodhagan MacFarley from anyone else?

Maybe he got to drive a police car in his role as the only law enforcer in town.

I carefully took in Penny's lopsided green plaid couch and her easy chair, left in the reclined position, across from her television that had seen its better days sometime before I'd been born. The floor was thin-planked hardwood and worn to the point that it had to have weak spots. She had a singular lamp next to the easy chair, but it didn't have a bulb in it.

Shuddering about the germs that had to be hanging out in this place, I elected to ignore directions and go outside to wait instead. A pearly gray Range Rover with a portable light fastened above the driver's door pulled into Penny's drive. I couldn't see who was inside. I stepped out onto the porch figuring it was now safe to move.

All four doors opened simultaneously, and I was presented with what was probably the whole Birdwell volunteer sheriff's office. I assumed the driver was Aodhagan MacFarley, who was not at all what I had expected. Dressed in fitted jeans and a blue mid-century bowling shirt with Mac embroidered above the pocket, he also sported a pair of black-and-white loafers reminiscent of the 1950s.

He was probably somewhere in his early thirties, with hair that was at least three weeks past really needing a cut, curling at the ends. He had the very dark hair and very pale skin of the Irish and uncomfortably inquisitive dark blue eyes behind black-framed Buddy Holly spectacles.

The front passenger had to be Earl. It was clear his eyebrows had been singed off and never had grown back correctly. From the backseat a fortyish farmer with salt-and-pepper hair, vacant brown eyes, and a vague smile hopped out. The threads that were left of his clothing appeared to be a blue T-shirt and a pair of overalls, but I couldn't be entirely sure. In a way, he reminded me of the pug from the restaurant. It was the eyes.

The fourth white knight, of the volunteer variety, was still trying to get out of the car. He was struggling, no doubt on account of the fact that his Levi's were tailored to fit a five-year-old.

He probably couldn't bend at the waist either, since he was wearing a silver belt buckle roughly the size of a bicycle tire. His face was so chiseled it could have been carved out of stone, and he'd capped it with a tremendous white cowboy hat. He was attractive in a yippee-ki-yay sort of way. The Irish guy stepped up to Penny's porch and offered his hand.

"Aodhagan MacFarley. I guess I'm sort of the law around here." His fingers were very long and thin. They were also without rings, I noted without thinking, and clean, so whatever he did in his off-sheriffing time, it was not manual labor.

"This is Earl, that's Stan and," he pointed to the cowboy, "that's Junior Hudley."

Ah, the famous Junior Hudley, owner of the local birthing trough. Junior ambled over to the door with the bow-legged gait of a cartoon cowboy, and close up I could tell he was closer to forty than I had originally thought. Well, even if these guys didn't have intelligence or experience going for them, at least they had maturity. Or age, anyway. Aodhagan MacFarley was clearly the youngest one, and if he was a day younger than thirty-four, I would have been very much surprised.

I followed them inside, and the man who was sort-of the law pulled out a notebook and flipped it open. My confidence wavered slightly when he had to borrow a pen from Junior Hudley to write in it.

"All right." He looked at me in a way that could only be described as kindly, and I felt the tension drain from my body with a sudden slump of my shoulders. "Tell me about what happened when you got here."

I went through the whole ordeal again, careful not to leave anything out. Even the part where the cat, apparently named Lucky, jumped on my face, since it illustrated how long he'd gone without eating.

"And then when I saw that she had two days worth of messages and a whole package of Luckies on the kitchen counter, I knew something had to be wrong."

The sheriff nodded to Earl, Stan, and Junior. "Check the whole house again for any other signs of a struggle. And don't touch anything."

He turned his gaze my way. "You look like you could use a little fresh air. Let's go back outside, and we can continue to talk out there. Okay?"

Without response, I allowed him to lead me by the arm out the back door. I don't know why I was being so docile, except that I now knew I didn't have to worry about it alone. Aodhagan MacFarley and crew were here to save the day.

Up close, the backyard looked even worse than it had through the window. In the farthest corner of the yard was a shed that had blackened burn marks all the way up the left side and appeared to still be standing by the grace of God alone.

I said the only thing there was to say as we stood there in the three-foot weeds. "Wow."

Mayor MacFarley looked at me like he'd only just remembered I was there. "When was the last time that you talked to Penny?"

The question surprised me because it seemed to come out of nowhere. "Uh, sixteen or seventeen years ago?"

He raised his dark eyebrows at me. "That long?"

"Well, I don't know exactly, but I was thirteen at the time."

His deductive reasoning probably worked better than I'd given anyone credit for here in Birdwell. "What are you doing here?"

"Penny wrote me a letter and asked me to come. I called her, but she wasn't home, and then she called me, and I wasn't home, so finally I just left a message on her machine that I would be here today."

I got the distinct impression that he now considered me a suspect. Like I'd done something with Penny. He didn't ask the reasonable question, why I'd come. Which was fine, because I'd have had to answer with, I have no idea.

Instead, he seemed to drop out of the conversation again. He moved away from me, looking up at the sky.

I looked up too and saw nothing but sky. Eventually, I realized he wasn't looking. He was sniffing. Letting go of my arm, he walked in a half-circle, still smelling at the air. I was actually stuck in an episode of The Outer Limits. This wasn't happening at all. Pretty soon, like every episode of The Outer Limits, I was going to understand the message of why we were all going to die for abusing the environment, and then I could turn off the TV.

"Why don't you just sit down right there for a minute and just relax. I'll be right back." He motioned toward Penny's back porch, which was collapsing into itself in the middle.

I was not hallucinating that there were a pair of shiny red mammalian eyes staring at me from underneath. I didn't take his casual advice. I thought about suggesting that he sit on it first and see what happened, but he was already moving into the yard. Aodhagan had made it to the shed. He opened the door and went cautiously inside.

What could have happened to Penny, really? Would someone honestly kidnap a person like her? She had no money, so there could be no ransom. She was not sexy, or even feminine, so surely this was no crime of passion.

So what? Maybe, she really hadn't been kidnapped. Maybe my five years of writing about other people's violent crimes, even one hundred years old, had gone to my head. Maybe she was just lax about checking her answering machine, and her cat was a foul-tempered little beast that was likely to jump on anyone regardless of its state of hunger, and she was a bad housekeeper, and she had gone to Lubbock, and her car had broken down or something, and she hadn't made it back.

I was paranoid—something I well knew—and I had involved a whole bunch of really stupid men, and one fairly nice one, in a fruitless search. I could have just waited for another day at least. Surely, Penny would turn up.

Mayor MacFarley came back out of the shed and strode toward me with as much purpose as one could while wading through waist-high weeds. When he got close enough, he grabbed my arm and steered me back into the house.

Inside the door, I managed to get my arm away without appearing too rude. Or I thought so, anyway. He ignored me.

"Everybody, come back out here."

I looked at him carefully, without trying to seem like I was staring. But it didn't matter, because he wasn't looking at me anyway. He was hopping slightly from one foot to the other, an agitated little shuffle.

I decided he was older than my first evaluation, maybe late thirties. There were no signs he was a smoker, and the muscles straining his shirt suggested he was someone who exercised fairly often. In addition to needing a haircut, he also needed to shave. There was a very thin spray of dark freckles over the curve of his nose and lightly dotting his cheeks.

He'd seemed calm at first. Which really made me wonder why he was so upset now. Surely he had not found anything suspicious in my aunt's shed. Surely not…

"Why are you so upset?" I demanded.

His quelling look was a far cry from his earlier kindness. "Go sit in that chair."

I was about to object, but the others finished tromping up the stairs and presented themselves like cowboy soldiers. Instead, I just ignored him and continued to stand.

"Who has the phone?"

To my astonishment, Junior Hudley pulled it from his back pocket. That he could fit anything besides himself into those absurd Levi's was beyond my comprehension. "I got it."

Mayor MacFarley took it and dialed a long-distance number. "Yeah, this is Aodhagan MacFarley, and we got a two-forty-four in Birdwell."

"What's a two-forty-four?" I demanded as soon as he hung up the phone.

"I told you to sit down."

I sat down in the nearest chair and repeated the question firmly.

He sighed heavily. "I'm sorry to have to tell you, but your aunt's body is in the shed. I think she might have been strangled."

DIGGING UP BONES

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Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BOOKS BY PHYLLIS A. HUMPHREY

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