He caught sight of me waiting for Brinker's attention.

"Nora!" He broke off scribbling with his trademark Montblanc pen. "Don't you look lovely today. My God, is that a Dior coat?"

I had put away the pink chinchilla and found a coat more politically correct this afternoon. "It is. One of Grandmama's favorites. Hello, Dilly."

He kissed both my cheeks. "It's stunning. I've always loved that reversible design, so clever of Dior. Brinker, do you know Nora Blackbird? You should. If anyone in this town innately understands fashion, it's Nora."

Brinker looked as if he'd like to burn my Dior coat with me in it.

It all came back to me in a rush, and I could see he remembered every nanosecond of our fateful summer, too.

A few days after Oriana and I found him branding Hemorrhoid with a cigarette, he'd sought me out and cornered me in the deep end of the pool. He untied my bikini top and threw it over the diving board like a captured flag. I kicked him in his Speedo, which should have been the end of it.

But it hadn't been.

Now in his midthirties, Brinker looked like a TV version of a Special Forces agent-head shaved smooth as a bullet, muscles bulging beneath a plain olive T-shirt. He had cold black eyes-surely contact lenses-a hawk nose, and a macho tilt to his chin. My first thought was overcompensation. In one hand, he gripped the neck of a champagne bottle-an empty one, I noted. With his other hand, he pointed his video camera.

As Dilly introduced me, Brinker's camera zoomed in on my face. "Hello," he said from behind the lens.

"Would you mind putting down the camera?" I asked.

The videotaping was his way of forcing people to participate in their own humiliation, and I was surprised when he honored my request. But Brinker also had a mean habit of studying a person before lowering himself to speak. I recognized it now as a comedian's trick of putting his audience in their place before starting on his material. He defied heckling by displaying his own superiority.

I endured his scrutiny for a long moment, waiting for the put-down.

Then he said, "I remember your face, but not your name."

I managed to smile despite his inability to remember Dilly's introduction. "I'm Nora Blackbird."

"Oh, yes. You're thinner now. It suits you."

During his short time in the fashion business, he'd learned the advantage of remarking on everyone's weight. I said, "Congratulations on your success."

He smiled, too, suddenly turning on the force of a powerful personality like a sunlamp. "Have you tried it yet? The Brinker Bra?" He let his gaze slip down to my breasts and linger there.

"Not yet. Do you expect every woman in America to buy one?" I had my notepad in hand, pen poised.

"She's going to buy several," he said. "In various colors, all the styles. The Brinker Bra will become an indispensable part of every woman's wardrobe."

Dilly Farquar glanced wryly at me as if to say Brinker had already given him the same canned baloney.

"What was your inspiration?" I asked.

"It came to me in a dream. What man's dreams aren't full of women's breasts?"

Except he didn't use the word breasts. Once again, a comedian's trick-using a crude word to score a crude laugh.

When the laugh didn't come, he asked me, "And how do you rate being a fashion expert in this town?"

"I'm not. I simply wear old clothes because I can't afford anything new."

"But she always manages to look stunning," Dilly interjected.

I decided to take the bull by the horns. "I'm working for the Intelligencer. In Kitty Keough's place. I understand you requested she not come to your show last night."

He looked startled. "I did?"

"Or someone in your organization did."

"Well, that old bat deserves a slap in the face now and then."

Kitty had once called him "Baldy Brinker" in her column, when Brinker's receding hairline started to become obvious. Now he shaved his head but I imagined her remark still stung.

"Nobody likes Kitty much," Dilly agreed, "but that doesn't mean-"

"Let her find somebody new to kick around. Besides, even the Brinker Bra can't help those sagging udders of hers." Brinker gave me a sneery, triumphant smile.

"It doesn't really matter," I said, "since Kitty passed away last night. In fact, she was murdered."

Dilly's jaw dropped. "Good Lord!"

Brinker looked as if he'd swallowed a hand grenade.

I said, "She was barred from your show earlier in the evening."

"We had to limit the guest list." As if seizing on a good idea, Brinker said quickly, "Fire regulations. You expect us to invite the entire city to these events? We had to cut somebody."

"I see. But she had your name written in her appointment book for yesterday."

"So?" Brinker began to look belligerent. "That doesn't mean anything. I didn't know the bitch."

"That's odd," Dilly said. "I thought your family knew her quite well. In fact, I clearly remember your father throwing a drink in her face once. Because of something she wrote about your grandmother?"

If possible, Brinker turned pale. "One old broad writing about another? Who cares?"

"Care to comment on Kitty's death?" I asked.

"No," he said shortly. "No comment at all."

"Are you sure?"

"I know who you are." He suddenly pretended to recognize me. "I've got your little sister working for me, did you know that?"

Brinker lifted the camera to his eye and turned on his heel. He walked away, already filming other people.

"Hard to believe a young man can be so pompous," Dilly said.

"He's not my favorite person either. What do you know about his grandmother?"

"Old Biddy Holt? You never met her? Now there was a barracuda! She was very strict. Used to lock the family butler in his room when he slipped up. She thought she was punishing him, but he read the whole Zane Grey oeuvre several times."

"Brinker gets his cheery personality from his grandma?"

"Very likely. She and Kitty had a feud for years as a matter of fact. Something about an umbrella at a garden party. Biddy claimed Kitty stole hers or visa versa. There was hair pulling and retaliation involving dog shit in somebody's limousine, as I recall. You must have been away in college at the time. Otherwise you'd remember the sordid details. It was a pitched battle."

"Sounds awful."

"It was actually quite entertaining. Don't let Brinker spoil your day, dear heart. He's beneath you. Now spill the beans." Dilly pulled me by the elbow until we stood apart from the crowd. "Ding-dong, the witch is dead? And murdered, no less? What does Brinker have to do with it?"

"Maybe nothing," I said, relieved that he was gone. I smiled at my old friend. "What do you know about Brinker's arrival on the fashion scene, Dilly?"

"It was incredibly sudden," Dilly observed. "One minute he's telling jokes in a dive, and now he's heralding himself as the next Marc Jacobs? You and I both know it doesn't happen this way. He should have spent years working his way up, designing for some Italian divas or in a Hong Kong sweatshop. It's very suspicious."

"Have you heard anything?"

"The truth is bound to come out. But," said Dilly, "if Brinker Holt designed that bra, I'm going to take up brain surgery."

I gave his arm a grateful pat. "Don't buy your scalpel yet, Dilly."

"Are you going to assume Kitty's column, Nora?"

"They haven't offered me the job."

"Yet," Dilly predicted. He reached into the pocket of his blazer and came up with a silver case. From it, he delicately removed a business card. "Why don't you call me sometime? We'll have lunch. You need a friend in the biz, someone to talk through professional matters with-from the point of view of someone who shares your background."

"Thanks, Dilly. I can use all the good advice I can get."

He presented his card to me. It was vellum with embossed letters, not a quick card from Kinko's. "You'll do fine on your own, Nora. Just don't let the corporate bastards get you down."

I gave him a heartfelt kiss. "I'll keep in touch."

We parted ways, and a minute later I literally bumped into Richard D'eath.

Richard's cane clattered to the floor, and I hid my surprise at seeing him there by bending to pick it up. Tartly, I said, "You career journalists sure know a hot story when you see one."

"Actually," he said, accepting the cane without thanks, "I was looking for you. Can we talk?"

I couldn't have been more surprised if he suggested we run off to Disney World. "Talk about what?"

"Kitty Keough's death."

I should have known he was on the job. And he wanted information from me.

His gaze narrowed. "Is there something wrong with your face?"

Without thinking, I touched my cheek. "No, nothing."

He shrugged. "You disappeared last night. You have some time now?"

"Not really, no. You see-"

"It will only take a few minutes."

"I'm-"

"Got something to hide?"

"I have a lot on my mind today."

"Like Kitty Keough's death? Or your boyfriend's arrest?"

He watched my expression as an icy chill washed over me. I should have known Richard was way ahead of me.

"Don't try to kid a kidder, Miss Blackbird. We both know you're not chasing front-page news. I heard your boyfriend got himself arrested this morning."

"How do you know who my boyfriend is?"

"There are some people who make news when they sneeze. Mick Abruzzo is one of those people."

"He wasn't arrested. Michael is being asked some questions. When bad things happen, the police automatically assume he has information."

"Especially when the bad things concern you?"

"Kitty's death has nothing to do with me."

"If the dead body turned up on your doorstep, the murder very much has something to do with you. And, by extension, the man you're involved with. I hear he's not exactly the tea-and-crumpets type."

"Let me guess," I said, adding up all the clues. "Your story is organized crime."

"Not yet, it isn't. Talk to me. Maybe there's an angle I'm missing."

The last person I wanted to talk to today was Richard D'eath, especially if he had decided to write about Michael. I felt certain he could twist my words into an unflattering story, and I didn't have the strength to outwit him today. But ditching him obviously wasn't going to be graceful.

"All right," I said, "but I have to speak with my photographer first. Even the society column has a deadline."

"Sure," he said, suspiciously good-humored. "Do what you have to do. I'll wait. It'll be interesting to watch you work."

"You might notice other things that are more interesting here."

"You mean all these women in Brinker Bras?"

"They're hard to ignore, aren't they? Even for a seasoned reporter like yourself."

He remained unflustered. "I like women with a little mystery. I'll wait for you right here." Richard leaned against the marble wall by the exit I'd have to use to make my clean getaway.

I looked for Libby, but didn't see her in the crowd. So I found Lee Song again.

"Lee, can I ask you a favor?"