Detective Kritzic nodded, self-consciously tucking an autographed picture of Marla Brenzelle behind her back. "I understand you're her director," she said. "I'm a big fan."

I'm in serious trouble, Bonnie thought. The world is in serious trouble.

Rod accepted the compliment graciously. "Whatever I can do to cooperate, I'll be happy to..."

"You're Joan Wheeler's ex-husband?" Captain Mahoney asked.

"Yes."

"May I ask how long you were married?"

"Nine years."

"And you divorced when?"

"Seven years ago."

"Children?"

"A boy and a girl." He looked to Bonnie for help.

"Sam is sixteen and Lauren is fourteen," she offered.

Rod nodded. Everyone watched while Captain Mahoney jotted down this latest information.

"Did your ex-wife have any enemies that you know of, Mr. Wheeler?"

Rod shrugged. "My ex-wife wasn't exactly Miss Congeniality, Captain. She didn't have many friends. But enemies...I couldn't say."

"When was the last time you saw your ex-wife, Mr. Wheeler?"

Rod gave the question a moment's thought. "Christmas, probably, when I took over some gifts for the kids."

"And the last time you spoke to her on the phone?"

"I can't remember the last time I spoke to her on the phone."

"And yet, according to your wife, she often called your house."

"My ex-wife was an alcoholic, Captain Mahoney," Rod said, as if this somehow explained everything.

"Were you on good terms with your ex-wife, Mr. Wheeler?"

"Don't answer that," Diana advised from across the room, her voice quiet but forceful nonetheless. "It has no relevancy here."

"I have no problem answering the question," Rod informed Diana curtly. "No, of course we weren't on good terms. She was nuttier than a fruitcake."

"Good one," Bonnie heard Diana mutter, not quite under her breath, as she raised her hands in defeat, her eyes rolling to the top of her head.

Captain Mahoney allowed a slight smile to crease the corners of his mouth. "According to your wife, your ex-wife called her this morning to warn her she was in some kind of danger. Do you have any idea what she might have been referring to?"

"Joan said you were in danger?" Rod asked his wife, his voice echoing the look of incredulity that had settled, like a mask, over his features. He brought his hand to his forehead, rubbed it until it grew pink. "I have no idea what she was talking about."

"Who would profit by your ex-wife's death, Mr. Wheeler?"

Rod looked slowly from Captain Mahoney to his wife, then back to Captain Mahoney. "I don't understand the question."

"I advise you not to answer it," Diana interrupted again.

"What are you asking?" Rod asked impatiently, although it was hard to tell whether his impatience was directed at the police or at Diana.

"Did your ex-wife carry any life insurance policies? Had she made a will?"

"I don't know whether or not she had a will," Rod answered, each word carefully measured. "I know she carried life insurance because I paid the premiums. It was part of our divorce settlement," he explained.

"And who is the beneficiary of that policy?" Captain Mahoney asked.

"Her children. And myself," Rod added.

"And how much is that policy for?"

"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars," Rod replied.

"And the house at Thirteen Exeter Street? In whose name is the house?"

"It's in both our names." Rod paused, cleared his throat. "Our divorce agreement stipulated that she could live in the house as long as the kids were still in school, then she'd have to sell and we'd split the profits."

"How much would you say the house is worth in today's market, Mr. Wheeler?"

"I have no idea. Joan was the real estate agent, not me." Rod looked pained, his eyes narrowing in growing frustration. "Now, I think it's time I took my wife home-"

"Where were you today, Mr. Wheeler?"

"Excuse me?" Rod's cheeks flushed hot pink, like rosy circles painted onto the faces of porcelain dolls.

"I have to ask," Captain Mahoney said, almost apologetically.

"He doesn't have to answer," Diana reminded him.

"I was at work," Rod said quickly. Again Diana's eyes rolled toward the ceiling.

"All day?"

"Of course."

Bonnie felt suddenly confused. If he'd been at work all day, where was he when she called?

"Your wife tried for over an hour to reach you, Mr. Wheeler," Captain Mahoney said, as if reading Bonnie's mind.

"I took several hours off for lunch," Rod explained.

"I'm sure you have witnesses...."

Rod took a deep breath, made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. "Well no, actually, there aren't any witnesses. The fact is I didn't eat lunch. I told the switchboard that I was going out for lunch and that I couldn't be reached, but what I really did was grab a few hours' sleep in my office. We didn't get a lot of sleep last night. Our daughter had a nightmare."

Bonnie nodded confirmation.

"n.o.body saw you?"

"Not until after two o'clock, when I went into a meeting. Look," he continued, unprompted, "I may not have been one of my ex-wife's biggest fans, but I certainly never wished her any harm. I feel terrible this has happened." He hugged Bonnie tight against him. "I'm sure we both do."

There was a long pause during which n.o.body spoke. From outside the small room, Marla Brenzelle's high-pitched laugh reverberated. She's working the room, Bonnie thought, watching as the woman pranced around the station in her bright yellow Valentino suit, dragging an imaginary microphone around with her, thrusting it into the faces of her adoring fans.

"I think that's all for now," Captain Mahoney was saying. "Of course, we'll probably want to speak to you again."

"Anything we can do to help," Rod offered, although he no longer sounded as sincere as he had earlier.

"We'll have to interview Sam and Lauren," Detective Kritzic said.

Rod looked startled. "Sam and Lauren? Why?"

"They lived with their mother," Detective Kritzic reminded him. "They might be able to shed some light on who killed her."

Rod nodded. "Can I speak to them first? I mean, I just think it would be better if I were to break the news to them."

"Of course," Captain Mahoney stated. "We'd like your permission to search the house later. There may be some clues...."

Rod nodded. "Any time."

"We'll come by in a few hours. In the meantime, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't move anything in the house. If the kids should say something, or you think of anything that might be helpful, I hope you'll call us immediately."

"Will do."

Rod squeezed Bonnie's shoulder, led her to the door.

"Oh, by the way," Captain Mahoney said as they were about to exit, "do either you or your wife own a gun?"

"A gun?" Rod shook his head. "No," he said, the single syllable managing to convey enough outraged indignation for several complete sentences.

"Thank you," Captain Mahoney said as Marla Brenzelle extricated herself from her fans and walked toward them, arms outstretched in a theatrical display of sympathy. "I'll see you in a few hours."

Something to look forward to, Bonnie thought, as the former Marlene Brenzel locked her in a suffocating embrace.

4.

The suburb of Newton is only minutes from downtown Boston, its eighteen square miles housing almost eighty-three thousand inhabitants. It is composed of fourteen diverse villages, including Oak Hill to the southeast and Auburndale to the northwest. Joan Wheeler and her children resided in West Newton Hill, the site of the most exclusive homes in Newton.

The house at 13 Exeter Street was large and mock Tudor in style. Several years ago, Joan had painted the entire exterior of the house a kind of greenish-beige, including the wood trim, and replaced all the front windows on the main floor with panels of stained gla.s.s. The result was a structure that looked like it couldn't quite make up its mind what it wanted to be-house or cathedral. The stained-gla.s.s panels themselves were primitive and puzzling: a man in long flowing robes, a dog playing at his feet; a woman in modern dress balancing a pitcher of water on her head; a man tilling the land; two pudgy children playing by a waterfall.

Rod lowered his head into his hands as Bonnie pulled her car into the driveway.

"Are you all right?" Bonnie asked.

Rod leaned his head back against the leather headrest. "I just can't believe she's dead. She always seemed so much larger than life." He looked toward the front door. "I dread like h.e.l.l going in there. I don't know how I'm going to break the news, what I can say to make things easier...."

"You'll find the right words," Bonnie told him. "And you know I'll do everything I can to help them."

Rod nodded silently, opening the car door and stepping outside. A few clouds hovered, threatening rain.

April is the cruellest month, Bonnie recited silently, recalling the line from the poem by T. S. Eliot, and thrusting her hand inside her husband's as they marched solemnly up the front walk.

At the large wooden double door, Rod stopped, fumbling in his pocket for the keys.

"You have keys?" Bonnie asked, surprised.

Rod pushed open the door. "h.e.l.lo," he called as they stepped into the marble foyer. "Anybody home?"

Bonnie checked her watch. It was almost four-thirty.

"h.e.l.lo," Rod called again as Bonnie took several tentative steps toward the living room on the right.

The room was lushly papered in a textured pale blue satin. An antique-looking sofa in pale pink silk and two blue-and-gold armchairs were grouped around a large brick fireplace, several obviously expensive Indian rugs scattered in seemingly random fashion across the dark hardwood floor. Several charcoal drawings hung in simple frames: a woman hugging a young girl to her side; two middle-aged women lying with loose-legged abandon in the afternoon sun; and two old women sewing. "These are very nice," Bonnie said, eyes lingering on the sketches.

She walked through the dining room, running her hand along the top of the long, skinny oak table that occupied the center of the room, surrounded on either side and at each end by high-backed oak chairs with burnt-orange leather upholstery.

The kitchen was at the back, a huge room which ran the entire width of the house. The floors were bleached oak, the cabinets dark burgundy against winter-white walls, the entire back wall a window that overlooked a tastefully landscaped backyard. Like the living and dining rooms, this room was immaculate. A far cry from her own kitchen, Bonnie thought, conscious that there was nothing sticky on the floor, no wayward patterns of dried-up sauces on the walls, no fingerprints on the large gla.s.s kitchen table. Did anybody actually live in this house, let alone a woman with two teenagers? she wondered, pushing through a second door on the other side of the kitchen and returning to the front hall. "Rod?" she called, wondering where her husband had disappeared.

"In here."

Bonnie followed his voice into the small room to the left of the front door. Rod stood behind a gilded antique desk, his right hand caressing a large crystal paperweight. Built-in bookcases lined three walls; a burgundy leather sofa stood against the fourth, an oval-shaped dhurrie rug in front of it.

"This used to be my favorite room," Rod said, his eyes a decade away.

"Everything's so neat," Bonnie marveled. "It's kind of spooky."

"Since when did neat equal spooky?"

"Since we had Amanda." Bonnie was suddenly aware of someone moving about overhead. She walked quickly back into the front hall, Rod right behind her.

"Who's there?" The voice was small, tentative. "Mom? Is that you? Do you have somebody with you?"

"Lauren?" Rod answered, approaching the staircase. "Lauren, it's your father."