I was standing with both hands clasped over my wildly beating heart, fearing it might pop out of my chest as in a silly cartoon. 'Margaret! Thank G.o.d you're okay! Why haven't you returned my calls?'

'Come in.' She stepped aside and let me enter the enormous family room.

The room was dark with a cathedral-style ceiling, exposed beams, and glossy hardwood floors. Margaret turned on a small side table lamp. The decor was casual with a wide-screen television that hung from the main wall and some bean bag chairs thrown across the floor.

She motioned for me to take a seat in a brown leather wing-back chair that faced the bean bags.

'Have you been calling me?' she asked. 'I thought I left you a voice mail on . . . oh, the other day . . . when was it?' She scratched her head. 'I don't know. Sorry, I've been kind of out of it. Have you learned anything?' she asked.

I semicollapsed into the chair, hoping my heart would slow down. 'Margaret, what happened to the window? I was worried sick about you!'

She glanced at the front door. 'Oh. My two-year-old threw his baseball into it.'

Well, at least that was one mystery solved.

I leaned forward in my chair. 'Can you tell me where you were on the fifteenth?'

She sank into one of the bean bags. 'What?'

'Last Tuesday the fifteenth. Do you remember? That was the day Celia and I ended up in the hospital. Can you tell me where you were?' '

'I'm sorry I didn't visit you.' She folded her skinny spider legs under her. 'So much is going on here. My mom took the boys to dinner at Chuck E. Cheese tonight, just to give me a little breathing room. Since leaving Alan, I've been . . .' She waved her hand around and appeared distracted.

I must have woken her. She seemed out of it. That or . . .

Was she using again?

'Did you go to Bruce's house that day?'

'No.' She looked thoughtful as she ran her hands through her hair, trying to smooth over the tangles. 'I don't think so. The fifteenth was the day I left Alan. It's the day I came here.'

'Can you retrace your steps for me?'

'I think so, why?'

'It's important. Please.'

She scratched at the nape of her neck, then smoothed down her hair. 'Let's see. I went grocery shopping. The nanny came to watch the boys and help me pack. Then I came here.'

'Did you see Celia that day?'

Margaret's expression changed.

My heart dropped.

She sat a little straighter. 'I did see Celia, as a matter of fact. I saw her at the little sandwich shop near my house.'

Darn!

I had been hoping that Margaret would have been nowhere near Celia. Now she'd had access to both Celia and Helene. Although since she had so readily admitted seeing Celia, she could hardly be guilty, could she?

'Celia was with Howard,' Margaret continued. 'You know Sara's husband, right? I thought it was strange-them being together, but I remembered she hired him to do the midwife center. So they were probably having a follow-up meeting.'

I covered my mouth with my hand.

Could Howard be the married man?

Did Miss No-Nonsense know about or suspect his infidelity? I recalled her outrage about Alan cheating on Margaret and her outspoken opinion that Margaret should leave the 'two-timer.' I wondered how she would feel now that the shoe might be on the other foot.

'Margaret, that day outside your house I told you I was going to speak with Sara, and well, it might have just been me, but it seemed like you didn't want me to talk to her.'

She sighed. 'I figured you were going to ask her if she knew about Alan's infidelity and . . .' She shrugged. 'I guess I was embarra.s.sed. You know airing dirty laundry in front of the neighbors.'

I glanced at my watch. 'When are you expecting your mom?'

I dreaded telling her about Alan's affair with Helene and wanted to be sure that I didn't leave her alone and vulnerable to taking anything. I wanted to be sure someone would be with her before I left.

Margaret glanced at a handsome cuckoo clock standing in the corner. 'Maybe in about fifteen minutes, why?'

'You were right. Alan was having an affair.'

Margaret nodded, her eyes welling with tears. 'I knew it. I knew it.' She bit her fist and her eyes glazed over.

I waited for her to look at me. When she seemed to have collected herself, I continued, 'Margaret, this is going to be difficult to hear but I found out he was seeing Helene.'

Her mouth opened and closed. One leg shot straight out as if she wanted to get up then she seemed to rethink it and fell back deeper into the bean bag. 'What? No, no! That can't be right! Why would you say such a thing?'

'I heard it straight from Alan. He told me he and Helene were going to move away together. She was canceling plans for her home extension.'

'He was going to leave me? They were going to move away together?'

I couldn't bring myself to tell her about their plans to get custody of her children. What did it matter now anyway? She'd been through enough.

Instead, I said softly, 'That's what he said.'

Margaret wept silently.

I listened to the ticking of the cuckoo clock.

After a moment she wiped her eyes and said, 'Helene never . . . why? How could she do that to me, Kate? How could he do that?'

The weight of the betrayal was stifling the room.

'I also was able to confirm that Helene was indeed poisoned,' I said.

Margaret sat straight up. 'Alan did poison her? But why?'

'I don't think Alan did it. No. I don't think it was Alan,' I said.

Margaret searched my eyes. 'Who else then? Was it Bruce? Did he know about the affair? I feel so stupid. Was I the only one buffaloed?'

I was silent. A car drove by, filling the room momentarily with light. As the car pa.s.sed, the room was covered in dark shadows again, lit only by the table lamp beside me.

'Do you think Bruce killed Helene?' she pressed.

I opened my palms to her, inviting her theory.

'Why would he kill her?' Margaret asked. 'He was barely home-practically never even noticed her. Was it pride?' She rose off the bean bag and started pacing. 'Let me guess: Killing her was a cheaper solution than divorce. She would get half of everything and my husband, too.'

She stopped pacing and stood before me. 'Why did she do it, Kate? She could have had anyone. She was pretty and desirable and unattached-well, I mean, relatively. I know she was married but they didn't have any kids. She could have just started over with someone else. Someone who wanted kids. Why did she have to take my my husband?' husband?'

'You think Bruce didn't want kids?' I asked.

Margaret nodded. 'Well, I don't know but Helene wanted them so much and he just didn't seem to be interested.'

'What about the adoption then?'

Margaret frowned. 'What adoption?'

'Celia was helping Helene and Bruce coordinate an adoption from Costa Rica.'

Margaret's face went blank. 'She was? Helene wanted to adopt? I never knew-she never said anything to me. I guess she was full of surprises . . .' Margaret's lips puckered with bitterness. 'She never said a word.'

I watched Margaret carefully, not even certain what I was looking for.

She seemed very emotional and was continually wiping her eyes and nose with the back of her hand.

Could she have known about the affair all along?

How could she not know her best friend was sleeping with her husband? What if she had killed Helene out of retaliation and all this pacing around was just an act?

She was standing directly in front of me-practically on top of me. I realized my shoulders were hiked up to my ears.

Was I expecting her to pounce on me?

I forced my shoulders down and stood, reclaiming my personal s.p.a.ce. Margaret took a step back.

She lumbered over to the other wing-back chair and rearranged it to face mine.

I seated myself again and crossed my hands in my lap, trying to look professional and unimposing. She was my client, after all.

After a moment, I said, 'These are the facts as I understand them. Helene was poisoned with fentanyl and died on the dinner cruise. Celia was given the same drug. It's used for extreme chronic pain. It's a cla.s.s II narcotic. Do you know anything about this medicine?'

She shook her head.

I watched her eyes. She didn't fidget or glance around the room. She just stared at me straight on. She didn't look nervous in the least, only sad.

Finally, I said, 'It's mostly prescribed to terminally ill cancer patients.'

She nodded her understanding.

'Do you know anyone who could have been on fentanyl recently?'

She turned her lips down and shook her head.

'We were all on the cruise, so everyone-you, me, Sara, Evelyn, and our husbands-had access to Helene, including her own husband, Bruce. But only a few people saw Celia on the day she was poisoned-you, me, Bruce, and Evelyn.'

Margaret's eyes shifted almost imperceptibly. 'What about Alan?'

'No. Not that I know of. He says he was at the office all day. So he didn't have any contact with Celia and also he requested the toxicology screen for Helene from the medical examiner. If he had poisoned her, he wouldn't have pushed for that.'

Margaret crossed her legs, leaned back into the chair, and contemplated what I'd said. 'I was so sure he had done something with those drinks.'

We sat in silence.

'So you say that leaves us with who? Evelyn and Bruce?'

And you!

I watched her nervously swing her foot forward and back, but said nothing.

'Evelyn or Bruce, huh?' she repeated. 'It's got to be Bruce. Evelyn had no reason to kill Helene. I mean, I know she was a little bitter about being kicked out of the group, but that's no reason . . . she can't be that petty, right?'

'No. That kind of motive doesn't make sense,' I said. 'And what about Celia? Why would Evelyn try to poison her own midwife?'

Margaret nodded.

'I understand Bruce may have had access to the fentanyl. His grandmother pa.s.sed away recently from cancer.'

Margaret dipped her head.

'Margaret, did you used to be addicted to pain meds?' I asked.

Her head shot up. 'Who told you that?'

'Alan,' I admitted.

She jumped out of the chair. 'That no good . . . what else did he tell you?'

I shrugged.

She began to pace again. 'So that's it, huh? You think I killed her because I'm a recovered addict. I'm recovered, Kate. Recovered.'

She stormed out of the room, leaving me sitting in the chair waiting for her. She returned a few minutes later holding a frame that she clutched to her chest.

'I'm sorry for flipping out on you,' she said.

I nodded.