Nick's eyes narrowed. "You don't sound as sure of yourself as you did about Lily."

"I don't know him as well. Well, I really don't know him at all. He's rather cold and formal. I don't believe I've ever had a real conversation with him even though I was a friend of his daughters."

"And those daughters probably sounded a lot alike. Especially on the phone."

"You're back to the anonymous call I got after finding Tamara's body. Nick, Lily was at her father's when I got that call. I told you I tried to reach the number of the caller but I was blocked. I've called Lily at Oliver's, though. My father's number is not blocked from Oliver's phone."

"He might have more than one phone line, Natalie. Many people do now with fax machines and the Internet."

"Lily would not make a call like that or hang around The Blue Lady dance pavilion trying to scare me. What would be the purpose?"

"Maybe as soon as her sister was murdered, she knew who did it and she planned revenge. She thinks you know her so well she might give something away, so she's trying to frighten you into going back to Columbus."

"That's really stretching things. Besides, what about the person on the phone saying 'their throat is an open tomb' and 'open tomb' being written on the wall of the Charlotte just like in the note that was left with Tam's body? It's the same person using the same phrase."

"Is it? Lily saw that note and she knows you saw it. By the time you got the anonymous call, I'd had time to tell her and Oliver I thought it had been left by the murderer. By repeating the phrase, she could be covering her tracks by making you come to the conclusion you just did-that the same person who left the note on Tamara also called you, hid in The Blue Lady, and killed Warren and Charlotte."

Natalie stared at him as she absorbed his speculation and realized it did make a kind of sense. But she wouldn't accept it. "Nick, this all must seem perfectly plausible to you, but it's just absurd if you know Lily. She isn't capable of murder."

"Profound grief and shock can make you capable of things you never imagined."

"Not murder. Not Lily."

"If you did think Lily might have murdered Warren and Charlotte, would you tell me?"

Natalie glanced down at her hands. They were slim with long fingers and short, unpainted nails. The creamy pearl in her ring seemed to glow. Tamara had always loved the ring.

Natalie lifted her gaze to Nick's. "If I thought someone had committed cold-blooded, premeditated murder-even Lily in revenge for Tamara-I would tell you. I'd have to. I couldn't let someone so dangerous walk around free."

Nick nodded. "Good. You know the people involved in this case. I'd like to believe I can count on you for information."

"That makes me uncomfortable. These people are my friends."

"One of them could be a murderer. Maybe not Lily. Maybe it's Oliver, and Lily is just lending her voice to the project."

"That's almost as bad." Natalie's face set stubbornly. "No, stumbling on information is one thing, but I won't be a spy."

"I don't want you to be a spy," Nick said earnestly. "I don't want you to divulge anything about these people's private lives that doesn't directly pertain to the murders. I wouldn't ask for any information of you, but I need help."

"You? The big-city detective?"

"Please don't plaster that local stereotype on me. The people in this town elected me sheriff, then they seemed to resent me because I come from New York City. I don't understand it."

"They elected you because they thought you had more knowledge and experience than anyone else running for the position. At the same time, a lot of them are intimidated by that expertise. And some, like Max Bishop, are simply used to calling the shots with guys like Purdue. I don't think that man made a move without first clearing it with Bishop."

"I know all about Purdue. I also know that some people think I run too tight a ship. And I admit to being a hard-a.s.s lately. But Natalie, this department was a mess. I had to pull things back in line, inst.i.tute some order." He sighed. "However, just because I was on the N.Y.P.D. doesn't mean I'm omniscient. I know investigative techniques, and I'm good at my job if I do say so myself, but I'm not a d.a.m.ned psychic." He leaned forward. "We have had three brutal, bizarre murders in less than three days. I'm afraid we'll have more. That's why I need all the information I can get. Can't you see that without getting up your hackles because you think I'm persecuting your friends?"

She twisted her ring, catching her lower lip between her teeth as she studied the salt and pepper shakers on the table. "You're right," she said reluctantly. "I know these people better than you do and I can't deny there's a connection among the killings. In that case maybe I can help in some small way." She raised her dark gaze. "So I'll keep my eyes and ears open but only for the sake of justice." She grinned. "G.o.d I sound sanctimonious!"

"Only to you."

"I doubt that." She frowned. "I'm having some trouble with guilt, but as long as I've agreed to offer information, I guess there is one other person I should mention. Alison Cosgrove. She's Viveca Cosgrove's daughter. Viveca has been seeing Oliver Peyton for a couple of years. Alison is twenty-one or -two and she's deeply disturbed. She's been under psychiatric care for years. Lately she'd been seeing Warren professionally, but Lily thought Alison had a fixation on him."

"Do you believe she's right?"

"Lily is pretty perceptive and I trust her judgment. If she thinks Alison had a thing for Warren, I'm sure she did. Anyway, earlier this evening I was speculating about all of this and..."

She looked troubled. "Go on," Nick urged.

"Well, you're the professional. I don't want to sound silly. But I wondered if Alison could have killed Tamara because she thought Tamara stood between her and Warren. Then she could have found out that Warren wasn't interested in her but in Charlotte. Maybe she followed him and saw them meet on the boat." Nick stared at her and she felt color coming to her cheeks. "It sounds outlandish-"

"It sounds perfectly reasonable, particularly if this Alison is as disturbed as you say. Why isn't she in a hospital?"

"She's been in and out of them ever since she was five. She's also been heavily medicated until recently."

"Why not now?"

"Because Warren was a psychologist, not an M.D. He can't write prescriptions."

"Then why was Alison seeing him?"

"Lily said Alison insisted on being treated by Warren."

Nick leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. "Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned. You just put a whole new spin on this case."

"I feel like I just committed slander."

"You merely presented a theory in a confidential context. You stated nothing as fact and I'm certainly not going to descend on Alison Cosgrove, although I'll be watching her. Do you think she's capable of imitating Tamara's voice?"

"I'm not sure. Alison's voice is higher and more childish than Tam's, but that doesn't mean she couldn't alter it. She'd certainly heard Tam's voice enough. Lily's, too. They weren't that different." She sighed. "Now I've just implicated two people."

"You didn't implicate anyone." Nick gave Natalie a long, direct look. "I know you're not a gossip. You only told me anything because you thought you should. That makes you invaluable to me."

That's not all you are to me, Nick almost said, but of course he couldn't. He wasn't even sure he meant it. He was exhausted and in need of some rea.s.surance. She was beautiful and kind and smart. But he hardly knew her. Use your head, Nick, he reminded himself. Keep it light.

"One other thing," he said quickly. "Mrs. Bishop said that before Charlotte left the house last night, she was waylaid by a young slender man with dark blond hair. Does that sound like anyone you know?"

Natalie shrugged. "It could be a lot of people. No one immediately springs to mind."

"How about the guy that was in Lily Peyton's shop yesterday morning?"

"Now that you mention it. He said his name is Jeff Lindstrom."

"What does he do?"

"I have no idea. He said he's here on vacation."

"Staying where?"

"I don't know. He was headed for Trudy's Diner for breakfast, though. Maybe he struck up a conversation with someone there."

Nick smiled. "Dr. St. John, you are a gold mine of information."

"Only one of my many fine qualities." Natalie stood abruptly. "I should be going now. My father is under the impression that I'm fifteen and he'll probably be calling to check on me, which would be too embarra.s.sing to endure."

"A concerned father is always a concerned father."

"So he keeps telling me. But I hope when Paige is an adult, you give her a little more leeway than my father does me."

"I'll try, but I'll probably be a complete pain."

She laughed. "Tell Paige I had a wonderful time with her."

"I will and thanks for staying."

"I suppose I'll see you at the funeral. I've read that police come to funerals of murder victims to see if the killer might turn up to get a big thrill out of the whole thing."

"The only problem is that if they're getting a thrill, they usually don't look like it. Natalie, I'd rather Lily didn't know the real reason why I'm coming to the funeral."

"I won't have to tell her-she'll already know. She won't come up to talk to you about the case, either. She'll stay out of the way." She frowned. "Alison is another matter."

"She's attending?"

"Viveca says she wants to and Alison gets what she wants. She might sit like a stone and behave herself. Or she might make a scene and have to be taken away. Or she might play Lois Lane and come up to interview you."

"Oh, G.o.d," Nick moaned. "I vote for the stone."

"Don't count on it."

He trailed behind her to the front door. He wanted to say something, clever, but the only thing he managed was, "Sure you can make it home after all that milk?"

"I think so. It didn't have nutmeg in it, remember?"

"Nutmeg. I'll have to try it." Well, you've certainly impressed her with your witty repartee, he thought gloomily. As she strode to her car, though, one more comment burst from his mouth. "Do you really think Paul Fiori is gorgeous?"

She turned, her silky hair swinging over one shoulder, and winked at him. "Absolutely irresistible."

He shook his head. "I knew it. Too much milk."

"Tell me again what they looked like. Warren and Charlotte, I mean. No, wait a minute. I wanna see this."

Ted Hysell sighed and glanced back at the television. Eddie Salvatore leaned across the table, his brown eyes smoldering in his chiseled face. "So you don't know nothin' about this murder that went down today, I got that right, Ice Pick?"

A sweating hulk with acne scars and bulging arms sprouting from a sleeveless sweatshirt dropped his sneaky gaze. "Yeah.'man."

"I love this show!" Dee gushed. "Paul Fiori is a walking, breathing piece of perfection."

"He's good as Salvatore," Ted agreed without her panting enthusiasm.

"Yeah?" Salvatore demanded. "Yeah! Is that what you're tellin' me, Ice Pick?" More shifting of eyes and sweating from Ice Pick. " 'Cause I'm gonna tell you somethin'." Salvatore sprang from his seat and grabbed the giant around the throat, rushing him across the room and slamming him against a wall. "I'm gonna tell you about how a little girl got found in the street, a little girl in a sweet blue dress pulled up around her waist from where some animal raped her over and over before he wrung her sweet little neck until her face turned as blue as her dress and her mother had to see that little girl, had to look in that little girl's face and say, 'Yes, that's my baby,' and for the rest of her life every time that mother tries to sleep she'll see that little girl's sweet face all blue and the eyes bulgin' out-"

Salavatore's well-meaning but vastly inferior partner stood back reverently, gazing at the law enforcement G.o.d that was Eddie Salvatore. "You gonna tell me that, Ice Pick?" He pounded the man's huge head against the wall. " 'Cause I got a hunch, Ice Pick. I got a hunch you didn't have nothin' to do with hurtin', rapin', stranglin' that little girl, but you gotta give up the truth, you hear what I'm sayin'? 'Cause you don't give up the truth I'm gonna beat you till I turn that head of yours into a big, soft melon with brains drippin' outta your ears-"

"It was Snipe, man!" Ice Pick screamed, spraying saliva, overwhelmed by the blazing rage of Salvatore. "It was Snipe, I swear!"

"Hot d.a.m.n, that was great!" Dee took a slug of beer from a can, now willing to talk because the scene had swung away from Salvatore. "You get confessions that way, Ted?"

Terror of the interrogation room, that's me, Ted thought dismally. "Sometimes it gets pretty rough."

"Like when?"

"It's hard to remember all the times." Ted gulped beer, thinking furiously. "You remember that old man found floating in the lake a couple of years ago, bullet in his heart? We got the guy what was seen with him last..."

"Yeah?" Dee asked eagerly.

And Sheriff Purdue had conducted the interrogation, half drunk and belligerently ignoring the guy's plea for a lawyer, bullying him into a confession that a judge rightly labeled fruit of the poisonous tree. The guy had walked away a free man with a smirk at Ted he'd never forget. "It was pretty bad," he said lamely. "I'm not supposed to go into details, though."

"Oh, h.e.l.l." Dee sounded as if she knew he was trying to snow her. "Tell me about Warren Hunt and Charlotte Bishop."

He had to make up for her disappointment in his previous murder tale. "Got their throats slashed." He paused for effect. "Somebody nearly took off Charlotte 's head."

"Wish I'd have seen them! Given me a real thrill to see those two mutilated like a couple of pigs."

Ted blinked at her. "Jeez, Dee."

She threw back her head and laughed. "I was joking. You should see the look on your face!"

"Shut up down there!" The voice of Dee 's mother shrilled down the dingy stairway and bounced around the living room. "And turn off that d.a.m.ned TV. You're runnin' up the electric bill."

"Why don't you turn off your heating pad and your dehumidifier and your air conditioner, too?" Dee muttered savagely.

"Is she cranky tonight?"

"Cranky? That one of your mother's words? She's a b.i.t.c.h all the time now, not that she was ever a bed of roses to live with. Being deserted by two husbands didn't improve her disposition, but my brothers and I couldn't help it."

"They don't come around much anymore, do they?"

Dee flushed. "Not anymore."

Not now that she'd been fired from the hospital where she occasionally lifted drugs for her brothers to sell, Ted thought. He always told other people the charges against her were false. They weren't and he had mixed feelings about the drug theft. What she'd done was against the law, but the brothers were losers with kids who were going hungry. She'd denied the allegations Andrew St. John had brought against her, even to Ted. She had only told him the truth one night when she was particularly drunk after a call from one of her nieces who'd run away from home. The girl was sixteen and Dee was afraid she would become a prost.i.tute. There was no mistaking the sincerity of her love for the kids, but she'd done what she'd done and she was just lucky the hospital was more concerned about bad public relations than pressing charges or she would have landed in jail.

After losing her job, Dee would have left town if her mother hadn't been diagnosed with lung cancer. She now lived in her mother's house rent-free in return for nursing care. She earned enough to exist by typing. She also did other people's laundry, although Ted wasn't supposed to know this. He did know, though, and often anonymously threw business her way.

Dee hoped he would marry her. She'd never said so, but her desire was obvious. She was attractive in a strong-boned, earthy way. She lived life with a vengeance, though, and when she was forty, she'd probably look hard. That's what his mother kept telling him. Of course at fifty-seven Rhonda Hysell looked twenty years older with her long, shapeless, dark clothes and equally long shapeless hair that had never been touched by a beautician. Then there was her constant church work, her obsessive collection of Hummel figures she couldn't afford, her fervent attacks on dust and mildew, her unending war on grubs and mealy bugs and other garden pests. And for him she wanted a woman just like herself. Instead her son seemed to prefer Dee Fisher, a hard-drinking, raucous atheist. However, in Rhonda Hysell's mind Dee 's worst sin seemed to be the blatant sporting of a tattoo.

Ted snickered at the thought. "What?" Dee demanded.

"Show me your tattoo."