"I see that you've actually done some real gardening this summer. What kind of tree is that spindly one in the middle of the yard?" Mel asked, propping his feet on an extra chair.

"It's a bing cherry."

"I don't see any cherries on it."

"Mel, it's a baby tree. It probably won't get cherries for a couple of years. My grandmother had two of them when I was a kid. I'd visit her most summers. One time they produced so many cherries that she had to beg neighbors to come take most of them off her hands. The one requirea ment was that the cherries had to be bagged and weighed before the neighbors left. She actually gave away seventy-eight pounds of them. And kept ten pounds for her own pies."

"Eighty-eight pounds of cherries? I've never heard of such of thing."

"Neither had she. When she realized how many flowers the trees had, she hired two neighbor boys to net them so the birds wouldn't eat the fruit. I've never had a better pie in my life than she made."

She went on, "It did get two flowers this spring, but no cherries. So, how is your investigation of Denny's death coming along?"

"So-so. Not much information has come back on Denny himself. And I still can't manage to leave a message on his parents' phone. I've asked a cop in their town to go see if they're home. They're not. And none of the neighbors know when they're coming home.

"Tazz has an excellent alibi," he went on. "She was providing costumes for a private party. It was a reunion of a bunch of former hippies. Those who could still fit in their old clothes and had kept some, wore their own," he said. "Tazz dressed the rest of them who had wisely thrown all the tie-dyed stuff away."

"Was she there all evening?"

"Only after the rehearsal. She and her a.s.sistant dropped off the clothes some of them needed earlier in the afternoon, and went back after she was through at the theater to pick them up, examine them for food stains or sweat stains, and take them back to the warehouse well after midnight. Does she really make people who rent her clothes wear those underarm things?"

"She does."

"What if it's a sleeveless dress?"

Jane said, "I didn't think to ask. What about the others? John Bunting, for example? Was he alibied by his wife?"

"No. He'd been out to a late dinner after the rehearsal with a bunch of his old Chicago pals. They were finally asked to leave at midnight when the place closed."

"Did you interview all of them?"

"Yes, all but one of them, who is out of town. Are they ever a bunch of old coots. One has to carry his oxygen with him. Another is in a wheelchair and has a young man who accompanies him with his medicines. They're all successful old men. They either started companies here in Chicago or inherited companies from their fathers."

He went on, "One is called Bootsie. His father made expensive leather shoes and kept the shoe forms in storage, carefully itemized, until the client died. He claimed he always offered them to the bereaved family as a gift after the funeral. He's still in business. And he's the healthiest of all of them. Now he has fifty employees and they still keep the shoe forms. I'll bet each shoe brings in a fabulous profit. Handmade, hand-sewn, fitting perfectly and guaranteed to last at least fifteen years. Lots of his clients bring the shoes in after the fifteen years and want the exact duplicate.

"Another, 'The Pill,' inherited a pharmacy his father started in 1890 in the heart of the Loop. He showed me pictures of the original shop, with all the big bottles filled with colored water. At least I a.s.sume it was colored. It was a black-and-white picture."

"And the rest?" Jane asked, smiling.

"One, of course, is a lawyer. He didn't seem to have a nickname. He's retired and turned it over to his son and grandsons, but goes in every day to check out what they're doing. If I were a son or grandson of his, I'd have run away and become a cowboy or a plumber. He's the one who is out of town.

"The last one, called 'Big Buck,' is, you won't be surprised to learn, a banker. He started out as a p.a.w.nbroker and went on to found one of the biggest banks in Chicago, with branches all over the United States and most of Europe. Even a few in Asia."

"They must all be billionaires," Jane said. "You're right. I was sort of surprised that they even let Bunting hang out with them. He's not aroaring success. And even if he's been in many plays and movies, he probably isn't anywhere near their financial league. But they all went to the same private grade and prep school at the same time, and men like that keep in touch, I guess. They've known each other virtually all their lives."

"I'll bet Bunting's appeal is that he's an actor," Jane said. "They can run old black-and-white movies for their great-grandchildren and say, 'I knew him as boy and man, and still get together with him.' "

"While the great-grandchildren snicker," Mel said with a grin.

"Maybe he made good money and was investing it well," Jane commented. "That might explain his friendships with the rest of the old dears."

"I don't think so. I called my mother ..."

Jane kept herself from shuddering at the memory of meeting his mother once.

"She's a big fan of old movies," he went on. "She'd actually heard of them and looked them up in some of her reference books. She thinks he got his roles simply because he was the husband of Gloria Bunting. He usually played the silent, stoic husband the heroine doesn't appreciate, and she played the wife who has, or almost has, affairs with other men but always comes back to him, repentant and loving him all the more."

"I can imagine that well," Jane confirmed. "In the few scenes I've watched them rehea.r.s.e, she is the character. He's nothing compared to her. He might have been good-looking, though, when he was younger."

"Maybe so. At least he carries himself well. Very stiff, but with a hint of dignity. Though my personal guess is that he's a big drinker and probably was quite a womanizer in his heyday."

"He's still attracted to young women," Jane said. She went on to explain that he sat down at the first reading next to the girl who plays the s.l.u.t Denny brings home. And that Bunting was trying to see down her blouse.

"His wife made him sit elsewhere. She must know that he's an old lecher," Jane said.

"Hmm," Mel said. "Maybe there is a s.e.xual connection of a weird sort."

"Between who? Or should that be between whom?"

"You're the grammar maven, not me, Jane. What I meant was that Denny played the son who was marrying the s.l.u.tty girl and Bunting took it to heart."

"It's a play, not real life," Jane reminded him. "Not if Denny was really having an affair with the girl and Bunting was enraged."

"If so, he probably spends most of his life being enraged. He's an old man and can't compete with good-looking young ones. He must realize that."

Mel nodded. "I know I'm clutching at straws at this point. I'm still waiting for more information about all of these people. When and where they might have met before, whether they worked together, if they're old enemies of Denny's for good reasons. Don't worry. I was just thinking out loud. I've never made an arrest on a wimpy guess at who could have done it. I need solid proof.

"And in case you're wondering," he went on, "the s.l.u.tty girl isn't acting. Everyone who knows her says she's just being her real self. Surly, s.e.xy, and hopes to be the next Britney Spears. No talent. Just s.e.xy. Also, the tough old cop who interviewed her found out that she was a great admirer of Gloria Bunting and said that she thought Ms. Bunting should have dumped her husband when she was young. Joani is a lovethem-and-leave-them type. She wouldn't have murdered Denny for dumping her if they were having an affair. She's always the one to do the dumping. What's more, she told the cop who interviewed her, she'd never date an actor. All of them turn out to be obnoxious and selfish."

"Have you talked to the Buntings' daughter?"

"I have. She said quite frankly that if her mother had divorced him as soon as she, the daughter, was born, her mother could have been a real star in her own right. He held her back from some great offers of roles because there wasn't a role for him in them. Gloria Bunting could, the daughter says, have rivaled Helen Hayes in her prime. Even now, it's her mother that the grandchildren love. They have no interest in their grandfather at all. Nor does he show them any affection."

"How sad that is."

"Not necessarily. The kids love their grandmother, and so does her daughter. And to my mind, they're all happy enough with that. John Bunting doesn't enter into the relationships, and n.o.body cares anymore."

"What about the guy who replaced Denny?"

"I don't think he needs an alibi. He was invited by Imry to watch the rehearsal. He didn't know why. Imry offered him Denny's role, which he turned down because it would hurt his, Norman's, reputation to help Imry fill someone else's role. It wasn't until Denny died and Imry contacted him again, saying that Denny had died, that Norman agreed. And even then, Imry hadn't mentioned that Denny had been murdered."

"Another proof of what a jerk Imry is," Jane said.

As she spoke, her cat, Meow, hopped over the fence with a mole in his mouth. Jane leaped up, grabbed a shovel, and forced Meow to drop it, then threw it back over the fence into the vacant lot behind her own house.

Twelve.

Mel and Jane had both become used to Max and Meow's feline hunting antics. When Jane sat back down, Mel said, "Joani Lang hasn't an alibi, exactly. She claimed she'd gone to a bar to meet a girlfriend who didn't show up. The bartender says she spent the time trying to pick up men. Apparently none of them suited her, or maybe vice versa. The bartender doesn't remember when she left. Or if she left alone or with some guy."

"Who else have you questioned?"

"Jake Stanton. He and his wife had a late dinner with another couple. They went home at ten-thirty and watched a movie. They described it and it was one I've seen. But it's not proof of an alibi-they could have watched it the day before. But I tend to believe them.

"Bill Denk says he just went home and read until he fell asleep. The prop guy, named Tommy Rankin, who has an antiques shop but likes thea ater, says he doesn't remember where he was, but says he wasn't at the theater that evening for sure. He'd been there earlier to get a fix on what he needed in the way of furniture, flowers on tables, and such. Same with the students who are painting the set. They both went home to study for their cla.s.ses the next day. And that Chance woman was at a fund-raiser for another project. She and her husband went home around ten."

"Who else had keys?" Jane asked.

"There's a stagehand. Buddy Wilson. He says he wasn't needed until the dress rehearsal and never had reason to use the key and thinks he's lost it anyway. The lighting specialist and his two a.s.sistants, who are theater students, won't be needed until Monday evening's rehearsal. They did a preliminary study of the script and stage two weeks ago and checked that the equipment was working.

"You do understand," Mel went on, "that I wouldn't be talking to you about this except that you and Sh.e.l.ley have spent more time with these people than I have. I'm just letting you know my impressions so you two can confirm or deny them based on what you've seen and heard."

This was true. Mel had seldom asked Jane and Sh.e.l.ley for advice in earlier crimes when they'd been acquainted with some of the possible perps. That, of course, didn't stop them from sharingwhat they knew. He usually listened and didn't comment. Jane was flattered to be asked.

"We really only know about Ms. Bunting," she replied. "We've taken her to the needlepoint shop, and a lunch, and back to her hotel. We bought her a gift. Then the next day we took her to the needlepoint lesson. A nosy person asked her some personal questions, which she answered, and then she abruptly changed the subject back to needlepoint."

"What did she say about herself ?"