She winced. "Yes. I didn't mean it when I said I thought someone had tried to kill me." Her words belied her expression, which was one of terror, and her gaze was focused plainly on Max Van der Linden. Hmm. Guess she really did aim to do in his wife so she could get her greedy little hands on his money. And would she blame the murder on Max?

Wait a minute. If she did that, wouldn't Max be arrested and charged with murder? How would that help Gloria's cause?

Pooh. I was confusing myself.

"I didn't tell anyone who mattered," I assured her, lying through my teeth yet again.

She heaved a gusty sigh. "I'm so relieved. I was so sick, you see, and I didn't know what I was saying."

"About Max being someone named Jack, you mean?"

Another really convincing wince on Gloria's part. "Yes. He isn't Jack. Jack is... someone else." Her voice dropped to a thrilling whisper on the last two words.

"Oh? Who? Do you know?"

She shook her head hard. Looked to me as if she'd had her hair bobbed and dyed at a hair salon since she left the hospital. She couldn't have been that sick then.

"It could be anyone," said she in yet another dramatic whisper. "But whoever he-or she-is, he's trying to do away with poor Connie, just as he tried to do away with me."

"Good heavens," I said not at all dramatically. "Um... How do you know his name is Jack?"

Gloria scanned the sanctuary as if searching for sequestered spies and whispered, "I overheard a conversation."

"A conversation? Between who and who? Or should that be whom?"

She tilted her head and gave me a quizzical squint. "I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind." Annoyed at myself for getting sidetracked, I said, "Who was having the conversation you overheard?"

"I don't know!" She still whispered, but she put special emphasis on that last word. "All I know is one man called the other Jack, and they talked about poisoning Connie."

"You should have told the police," I stated.

"Well... I wasn't sure who had spoken. I... I only heard one man call the other Jack."

"You know, the doctor who pumped your stomach"-this time it was I who winced, when I recalled that pump and that tube-"had to tell the police what he found in your stomach's contents."

She gaped at me. "You mean, he told the police?"

"I imagine so."

"Hmm. Well, that doesn't tell who made me take it, does it?"

"No."

"Then that's all right, then."

Huh? "I see." I didn't see a blessed thing.

That being the case, I only said, "Well, it's good to see you up and around again," and fled to the wings. Or to the choir room, which was one of the wings in this instance.

Although I didn't really trust Gloria not to be acting a part as she acted the part-so to speak-of Pitti-Sing, she did seem to drag and be slightly listless. Finally she said she couldn't go on, wept and apologized profusely, and Flossie took her place. That was fine with me. It was a lot more fun for me when I had to interrupt the revels in the town of Titipu in my role as Katisha this time, mainly because Flossie had to cover her mouth to hide her giggles. Guess she'd never seen me be mean and nasty before.

" 'Your revels cease! Assist me, all of you,' " I sang, using my most elaborate gestures to indicate the character of Katisha, which was black as onyx and hard as flint. Not, perhaps, unlike Gloria Lippincott.

Have I mentioned how much I loved playing Katisha? Well, I did love it. For the first time in my entire life, I could be callous as a politician and not have anyone scold me for it. Bliss.

Sam must have noticed my delight because as he drove me home, he said, "You're enjoying yourself, aren't you? Playing that witch-woman?"

"Yes. It's more fun that I can remember ever having since I grew up." Only after I said the words, which were the truth, did I realize how sad they sounded. As an amendment, I said, "Well, except for when Billy and I were married. Our wedding was wonderful." And he'd been shipped overseas three weeks later.

"Yeah. Weddings are fun."

"You don't sound awfully convincing, Sam Rotondo."

He wrinkled his brow and twisted his lips. "You've never been to an Italian wedding, have you?"

"Can't say as I have."

"Let me just say that there are so many traditions and folderol involved that it takes all the enjoyment out of the occasion, at least for the groom."

"That doesn't sound right," I said, wrinkling my own brow.

"Doesn't sound right to me, either, but it's the truth. My God, you have to have the proper food, the proper colors and follow the proper superstitions. Poor Margaret had to wear a green dress at our rehearsal dinner, and it made her skin look yellow." He shook his head. "And I had to carry a piece of iron rod in my pocket at the wedding to ward off bad luck. Margaret even had to make a little tear in her veil."

"Those are all Italian traditions?" I asked, feeling slightly stunned. Heck, Billy had worn his uniform, and I'd worn a white dress and veil made by... well, me. And the word iron wasn't spoken at all, as nearly as I could remember. "Do your brides hold orange blossoms? I held orange blossoms. To this day, when I pass a blooming orange tree, I get all nostalgic."

"No orange blossoms. As we walked out of the church, everyone yelled auguri at us."

"That's pretty tame. They didn't throw anything?"

"They just hollered auguri. It means best wishes, which is nice, I guess."

"Huh. People threw rice at us when we walked out of the church. I guess that's one of our traditions, although, to be honest, I don't know which country it originated in."

"Hmm. You probably didn't have pasta and prosecco at the reception dinner. And I'll bet you got served a big cake baked by your aunt."

"We had ham and salads and Vi's wonderful dinner rolls, actually. And yes, we had a delicious cake." I sighed.

"Good for you. We got candy-coated almonds."

"Candy-coated almonds?"

"Italian tradition. Called confetti."

"Really? Is that where we get the word confetti? From Italian candy-coated almonds?"

"I guess so. I'd rather have had cake."

"Well," I hedged, "candy-coated almonds sound good."

"Yeah. They are good. So were Margaret and me, for a couple of years."

"Billy and I only had three weeks," I said, remembering.

"Yeah, but both of our marriages ended the same way. More or less."

"I suppose so. More or less."

And if that wasn't a melancholy thought, I didn't know what was. I decided to change the subject. "So, you and Johnny were cloistered together during today's rehearsal. Is there anything else I need to know about Saturday's seance?"

"Nope. We were just firming up our plans. I gave Buckingham a photograph of Michael Lippincott, so he could do the best he can with makeup in order to look like him. I told him you'd help him with the makeup. Hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind, although it's difficult for me to imagine Johnny agreeing to this fell plot."

"We're trying to capture a couple of murderers, don't forget. Buckingham is all in favor of capturing murderers. He'll gladly help someone who's down and out, but he's not so keen on assisting folks who kill other folks for their own gain."

"True, true. Johnny is a good man."

"Yes, he is. And so's his wife. A good woman, I mean." Sam shook his head. "I've got to admit that when I first met her, I didn't anticipate her transformation."

I heaved a little sigh. "No. I didn't, either. And I still feel kind of guilty about foisting her on Johnny."

Sam turned his head and gaped at me. "You feel guilty? You probably saved the poor woman's life."

"Yes, I know. But I wasn't really doing a good deed at the time. I was trying to get rid of her, because she'd sort of attached herself to me. Why, she came to our house the morning after the raid on that first seance, beaten half to death."

"I didn't know that."

"No." Another sigh. "Nobody but Flossie and I know it. And now you. It's not something you normally advertise, I reckon. I hope that Jinx Jenkins character never gets out of the big house." Don't ask me why I called prison "the big house." I must have seen it at a motion picture or something.

"He won't," said Sam.

"How do you know that for sure?"

"He got shanked."

"He got what?"

"Shanked. A shank in prison terminology is a homemade knife. He can't get out of the 'big house,' as you call it, because he's dead."

"Goodness! I'm so glad!"

Sam looked at me again.

Feeling only slightly chagrinned, I said, "Well, I am. I was afraid he'd get out and come after Flossie."

"Now you don't have to worry. Some other thug took care of the matter for you."

"Good. What about the rest of Maggiori's gang?"

With a shrug, Sam said, "Can't say as I know for sure. New York wanted Maggiori, so he got sent back there for trial. I don't know what happened, but he probably got off."

"What do you mean, he got off? How can a murdering gangster get off."

"Lots of ways. New York is relatively corrupt. He probably paid off a juror or a judge or something."

"That's terrible," I said, unable to comprehend corruption on such a large scale. "Are you serious? You're not serious, are you? You're kidding me."

Sam shook his head. "Nope. It's the bitter truth. That's another reason I'd rather be a policeman here in Pasadena than in New York City. Pasadena's a downright civilized place compared to New York. Hell, gangs used to run the city back there. Violent gangs."

"How awful." Dismayed pretty well describes my reaction to this news. I still couldn't quite make myself believe Sam's story.

"It was awful, all right. And the names those bozos gave themselves were stupid, too. The Dead Rabbits, the Whyos, the Five Points Gang."

"My Lord! Flossie was born and reared in the Five Points area."

"She's lucky she got out at all. Thanks to you and Buckingham, you really did save her life."

"Good heavens."

"Not a whole lot of heaven in New York these days, although the gang problems have changed. Now the Italian and Jewish bootleggers are taking over everything."

"Italians and Jews? I don't think I ever heard of a Jewish gangster."

"Yeah, well, they exist. Burns me up that the Italians are so big into bootlegging. Besmirches my heritage, you know?"

"I guess so, but you're one of the good guys, so you shouldn't take it seriously."

"Hard not to," grumbled Sam. "I'm pretty sure one of my sister's kids is in with a bootleg gang. Oh, and the Irish and Negros have their gangs, too. Harlem is a big bootleg area."

"Good heavens."

"Back to heaven, are we?"

"I don't know. Pasadena sounds like heaven compared to New York City."

"Trust me, it is."

"I trust you. But how sad."

"Yeah. I'm going to kill that kid if I ever get back to NYC."

"Your sister's boy?"

"That's the one, all right."

"That'll help a whole lot," I said dryly.