"That awful woman from the newspaper did?" Fawn pouted. "I wanted to, like, punch her in the nose?"

"What woman?" we asked in chorus.

Fawn blinked, prettily confused by our interest. "That woman who was killed? She got what's coming to her, y'know? She was totally rude to me?"

"Kitty Keough?" I asked. "When did you see her, Fawn?"

"The day of the fashion show? She went to Brinker's condo? And they had a fight?"

Fontayne said, "You didn't mention this before, Fawn. What were you doing at Brinker's condo?"

Fawn flushed. "Oh . . . I . . . I was visiting Brinker, that's all? To ask if we could be the Brinker Twins?"

"Oh, my God, you didn't sleep with him, did you?"

Fawn got so angry her implants actually began to tremble. "Of course not? What kind of girl do you think I am? I took him some jam, that's all? In a basket?"

"Jam," Fontayne said blankly.

"It's a universal gift? But he was busy fighting with that woman, so I left? But before I got on the elevator, she made fun of my shoes? I thought about killing her myself? I'm glad she's dead?"

"You could have mentioned this earlier, Fawn."

"Like, who cares what I have to say?" Fawn asked.

"Hm," said Fontayne.

"Look," I said. "This only supports my idea. I'll call you as soon as I know more."

As platinum credit cards flashed, I said my good-byes and dashed out to the street.

Richard had pulled up in a nondescript sedan-a newspaper pool car.

"Do I get a hint?" he asked as I climbed into the passenger seat. "Or are you trying to dazzle me with your Lois Lane impression?"

"Take it easy, Superman. I've got an idea, but I need a promise that you won't use the information yet."

He squinted at me. "Do you know anything at all about the profession of journalism?"

"I just need enough time to-"

"I know what you're trying to do," he said, pulling into traffic. "But you're supposed to be a reporter, too. Do you understand what that means?"

"No reporter can write a story that's short on facts. I think I know who really designed the Brinker Bra. And if I'm right, it's why Kitty was killed."

"Brinker didn't design it?"

"Only if the laws of the fashion universe have changed." I put my handbag on the seat between us and checked on Spike. He gave my hand a groggy lick. "I think Brinker stole it. I also think Kitty figured out who really deserves the millions the bra is going to earn."

"And the killer wanted the secret to die with Kitty."

"Why, Richard, you almost sound like a tabloid headline. Did you learn that in journalism school, too?"

He ignored that. "Has it occurred to you that the killer still has the same intent? And you're walking into a trap?"

"A lot of people could be in danger."

"What people?"

I just wanted to see Orlando for myself. With everything happening so close to him, I needed to know he was safe.

We arrived at Tall Trees in the midafternoon, and Meg opened the door to us herself.

"I'm so glad you're here," she said to me, looking strained.

"Meg, this is Richard D'eath, a friend. He's a reporter."

She shook his hand briskly. "Hello. I'm sorry. I'm not myself at the moment."

"Is it Orlando?" I asked.

"He's upset, yes. But it's . . . Mr. Gallagher is gone."

"Gone?" Or dead? I wondered.

I followed Meg into the kitchen, which smelled of fresh baking. A rack of oatmeal cookies cooled on the counter. Spike poked his head out of my handbag to better assess the fragrance.

"Do you know where Gallagher is? Have you spoken with him?"

"Yes, of course. He's gone to Ireland. He called me from one of those expensive telephones on the airplane, didn't he? First class! Now, tell me, who would spend money on a first-class ticket when he's going home to look after his poor mum, who hasn't got two pence to rub together?"

Somebody who really wanted Gallagher out of the country would buy him a first-class ticket, I thought.

But I asked, "Where is Orlando?"

"In his room. Aggie's keeping an eye on him. The lad is so sad! I was just about to take him a snack to cheer him."

"And Hemmings? Is he here?"

Mary Margaret shook her head. "He left for his manicure appointment this morning before we learned Gallagher was gone. He doesn't know yet."

"Meg, I think we need to talk about Orlando's safety."

Mary Margaret was already ahead of me. She said, "After that woman was killed here, I telephoned Orlando's guardians in New Zealand. I give them weekly reports, but this murder! And now Gallagher walks out without a word! You can't tell me all's right with the world when a trusted employee leaves flat after a lifetime of service, so I called them again."

Her cheeks flamed with two pink spots. I patted her hand. "You did the right thing, Meg."

She had to bite her lower lip to keep it from trembling, but she burst out, "That dear boy needs to be protected! The board of guardians is sending someone to take him back early to New Zealand, but it's a bloody long trip, and I don't expect anyone to arrive before tomorrow, maybe even the next day. I don't mind telling you, Nora, I'm worried."

"I'm worried, too."

"I tried to hire a guard, but the security company sent over a boy who's barely older than Orlando himself and carrying a big ugly gun on his hip, too! What do people imagine they carry a gun for except to use it on other people? I just despise a weapon! So I sent him packing."

"But," Richard said reasonably, "how can anyone protect the boy if-"

"I can't abide a handgun," Mary Margaret said smartly. "Now, shooting for sport is another kettle of fish altogether, and I've enjoyed bagging the occasional partridge myself, haven't I? But I simply don't-"

"Meg, how can we help?"

Mary Margaret hugged me impulsively. "Oh, Nora, you're so kind to come. I know you're thinking of Miss Oriana, aren't you?"

No, I was thinking of something Michael had said about Orlando. That the young heir should watch his step. As Orlando's only living relative, Hemorrhoid stood to inherit Lamb Limited. Now, with Gallagher gone, there was one less line of defense between the boy and someone who wanted control of the company badly enough to murder.

"I'm afraid for Orlando," I said. "He could be in danger."

"What can we do? If I ask the police for protection, there's going to be publicity, and that's a sure way to make things worse. What kinds of crazy people might come out of the woodwork as soon as the television trucks show up?" She sat down abruptly at the table, her anger flagging.

I glanced at Richard. "I'm afraid publicity is going to be hard to avoid at this point. We just need to figure out how to protect Orlando until his other guardians get here. Can you phone another security firm?"

"If I trusted them to be sensible, I would, but I don't. They call themselves professionals, but all they do is practice on a gun range and presto, they're protectors! Why, if my own father were here . . . He knew how to take care of a nasty business, if you know what I mean. Give me a strong man with his own way of doing things-that's the ticket."

"Ah," said Richard. He took a cookie from the rack. "I think we might just have the man for the job."

"We do?"

Chapter 12.

Mary Margaret looked hopefully at Richard. "Somebody who can protect Orlando?"

I said, "Wait a minute."

From inside my handbag, Spike looked at Richard's cookie and moaned a soft request.

Unaware of Spike's attempt at good manners, Richard bit into the cookie and looked at me. "It's only for a day or so. Why not take the kid yourself? You've got the best protection in the country, don't you? Who would dare cross the Abruzzo family?"

"That is-"

Mary Margaret said, "It's not a bad idea, is it?"

Spike growled.

To Richard, I said, "You're just creating a better story for yourself. Vulnerable young heir under the protection of the mob? What a headline."

"Great cookies," he said to Mary Margaret. "My grandmother used to make an oatmeal cookie with currants, too."

"And where did your grandmother come from, dear?"

"Somewhere in Wales, I think."

Richard let his guard down for an instant. Quick as a lizard snapping a fly, Spike snatched the remaining cookie from him. Richard yanked his hand back and examined it to be sure he still had all his fingers. Spike swallowed the treat in one ravenous gulp.

"Look," I said, "maybe Michael could provide the kind of protection Orlando needs, but not if the whole world knows."

Richard shrugged. "My deadline is tonight, but the story won't be published until tomorrow. By that time, the kid will be halfway to New Zealand."

The oven timer began to peep, and Mary Margaret went to retrieve another batch of cookies.

I put my handbag on the floor, and Spike scrambled out. He looked up at Richard with an intense glare, daring him to pick up another cookie and not share.

"I suppose I could ask," I said.

"Admit it," Richard said. "You don't trust anybody to do a job as well as you can. You think you're the one who can best protect Orlando right now."

I glared at Richard. "I know who to keep him away from."

I used the kitchen phone to try Michael's cell number again.

This time he answered.

I was so glad to hear his voice that I had to sit down.

"Hey," he said. "A guy at the convenience store just asked if he should bring a date for New Year's Eve. What's that about?"

With Richard crunching cookies just a yard away, I couldn't do justice to the party subject anyway, so instead I told Michael about Orlando.

Michael figured out what I needed before I finished telling the tale.

He said, "We'll make sure the kid is safe. I'll make some calls and meet you at the farm."

Orlando was not as easy to convince. He came down to the kitchen sulking like any kid told he had to travel with strangers.

But Spike snarled at him, and Orlando perked up.

He said, "Can I ride with the dog?"

"Sure," Richard said amiably. "Why not?"

Mary Margaret packed up more cookies, then checked Orlando's backpack for his toothbrush and a change of clothing. She added a notebook and a fresh box of crayons. She fussed over him until he shoved out of her arms.

Subdued, Orlando followed Richard to the car. I picked up Spike so he couldn't dirty himself in the snow.