"It's called a Llama. An automatic."

"What's the caliber?"

"I'm not sure."

"How about a thirty-two? Does that sound right?"

I knew the Llama Blackhawk; it was a woman's gun. Muriel carried one too.

"Yes. It may be a thirty-two."

"You carry it for protection?"

"Yes, of course."

"You threw the Smith and Wesson thirty-eight away?"

"No, I didn't."

"Neil threw it away?"

"Neil did what?"

"I'm asking you, Mrs. Zide. Did Neil throw it away?"

"I don't know."

"If Neil didn't throw it away, what happened to it?"

"I don't know."

"It just vanished? Disappeared?"

"I think so."

"Soon after the death of your husband?"

"I think so. I mean, no. I don't remember."

"Didn't it vanish the night your husband died? Didn't Neil throw it in the ocean, or the Intracoastal?"

"If she knows." From behind me I heard Muriel speak quietly, dutifully.

"Yes, excuse me, Mrs. Zide. If you know."

"I don't know."

"Neil didn't tell you?"

"No."

"Did you shoot your husband, Mrs. Zide?"

"No, I didn't, I swear that to you."

"But on the night of December 5, in the early morning, someone fired your pistol, your Smith and Wesson thirty-eight, isn't that so?"

She didn't answer. Her lips twisted into a skeletal grimace. She had been licking them constantly, and the lipstick was gone, so that they seemed colorless. Her blue-green eyes had sunk deep into their sockets.

"Your husband was in a rage that night, wasn't he, Mrs. Zide?"

She nodded her head up and down, slowly.

"He was angry at me, yes."

"After the party?"

"Yes, after the party. You were there."

"I was at the party, I wasn't there afterward. Your husband took your pistol out of your handbag and fired it once, didn't he?"

"No."

"And the bullet lodged in the Swedish oak paneling on the far side of the living room from the terrace, isn't that so?"

"No, not so."

There was a half-smile on her bloodless lips and a cunning look in her eyes that at first I couldn't define. But it slowly resolved itself into an expression of superiority. Then I understood. She knew something I didn't know, and she was reveling in it.

"There in the living room, Mrs. Zide, after the party, Solly was in a rage?"

"Yes."

"At you?"

"Yes."

"And he screamed at you?"

"Yes."

"He frightened you?"

"Yes."

"And then Neil came home?"

Her eyes grew stony, darker. "I don't remember."

"You testified under oath, at the trial, that Neil came home from a party while you and Solly were playing backgammon after the musicale. Do you remember that now?"

"Yes."

"Was Neil drunk?"

"I don't think so."

"High on drugs?"

"I don't know."

"Solly was screaming at you when Neil came home?"

"Yes."

"Isn't it a fact, Mrs. Zide, that before any shots were fired from your pistol, you heard the puppies barking, and you went outside and surprised two black men on the lawn, and they ran away?"

"Objection. Asked and answered," I heard Muriel say, but without the vigor of a short time ago.

"Withdrawn," I said. "And when you came back into the living room, the argument with Solly grew worse?"

"I don't remember."

I had it now. "And you took your pistol out of your handbag, Mrs. Zide, and you fired a shot over his head, into the woodwork, as a warning?"

"No." But that look of cunning fled her face. She would have made a poor poker player.

"And then Solly broke a bottle and cut you in the face, didn't he?"

"No." The cunning look returned.

"And you shot him, didn't you?"

"No."

"He was on the terrace, and you were just inside the living room, isn't that a fact?"

"No."

"You shot at him three times. One shot missed and went outside -the other two struck him and killed him. Isn't that what happened, Mrs. Zide?"

"No," she said, and the cunning look didn't fade. Because, I realized now, that wasn't what had happened. My mind swerved from one possibility to another. If Solly hadn't cut her, who had? Not Neil. I believed the worst of Neil, but not that.

"And then," I said, "Neil took over, didn't he?"

"Took over?" Connie looked frightened, paler than before. "No, he didn't take over. Took over what?"

"You were hurt and couldn't think, so Neil took over and arranged matters, isn't that so?"

"Asked and answered," Muriel said.

"Strike the question," I said. "Neil made a telephone call to the home of Victor Gambrel, chief of security at Zide Industries, didn't he?"

"No, not then."

"Then who did call Victor Gambrel?"

"Neil did, of course," she said, confused. "I'm sorry."

"Victor Gambrel lived close by, in Ponte Vedra, didn't he?"

"He may have. I don't remember."

"And Victor Gambrel arrived before the police did, isn't that correct?"

"Yes, I think so. Does that matter?"

"Victor Gambrel helped Neil move your husband's body so that it looked as if he'd been shot by someone standing outside, isn't that so?"

Again, from behind me, Muriel said, "If she knows."

"Yes," I said, "if you know."

"I do know. The answer is no. That didn't happen."

"Victor Gambrel helped you and Neil work out the story you needed to tell the police, didn't he?"

"No. There was no story we needed to tell."

"You decided to blame the murder of your husband on the two black men who'd bungled the burglary of your house, isn't that so?"

"No, I didn't do that."

"When you saw Darryl Morgan outside the house that night, you didn't recognize him as a man in your employ, isn't that so?"

"That's true. Yes, that's so."

"Neil deliberately gave to the police a vague description of the two men, didn't he?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't know who they were-you hadn't seen them clearly, and Neil hadn't seen them at all. Isn't that correct?"

"I don't know," she said, as if by rote.

"And that's why no one described Darryl Morgan as tall, or big, until after he was arrested, isn't that correct, Mrs. Zide?"

"I don't know."