Peter and I shook our heads, as did Claire and David. Megan had spent most of the night watching the band, but once they stopped playing, I hadn't seen her. Harry glared at Roni and took an unsteady step toward her. "If anything happens to her, it's your fault," he said with slow deliberation.

Roni narrowed her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Harry leaned in close to her and jabbed her shoulder with his forefinger. "It means you're a terrible mother, Roni. It means you ran your daughter off."

Roni took a step back, her expression disdainful. She sniffed. "You're drunk."

Harry nodded his head vigorously, sending his blond hair falling into his eyes. "That I am," he agreed. "But in the morning, I'll be sober. You'll still be a b.i.t.c.h."

Without a word, Roni's tanned arm swung up and she slapped him across the face. Claire let out a gasp. David sat still and stared bug-eyed. Peter and I jumped to our feet. Harry pulled his hand back to retaliate, but Peter grabbed it and pushed it back down. "Whoa!" Peter said. "Let's everyone calm down." But Harry wasn't listening. "You're a b.i.t.c.h," he repeated. "You ruin everything you touch: Megan, my dad, everything. Someday you'll get yours. And I hope I'm the one who gives it to you." He pulled against Peter's arm, but Peter held firm.

Roni's face was white under her tan, but she held her ground. "You think I ruin things? Well, in your case you just might be right. After this, I'm going to make sure that your father cuts you off completely. You are done, Harry. Do you hear me?" Her voice rose an octave. "Done! You can bet on that." She whirled around and marched back out to the terrace, slamming the door behind her. In the darkness outside, I saw a flash of red as the ember of a cigarette was lit.

Peter released his hold, and Harry fell back onto the couch. Peter and I stared down at him. "Are you okay, Harry?" I asked.

He nodded, rubbing the red mark on his cheek. "Yep. Except . . ."

"Except, what?"

"Except, I think I'm going to be sick."

Peter and I quickly yanked Harry to his feet. Propelling him up the stairs to the bathroom with lightning speed, we deposited him in front of the toilet and quickly backed out into the hall. "Thanks, guys," he said thickly, before kicking the door shut. Through the door, I heard him begin to retch. After a minute, he called out, "Guys?"

"Still here, Harry," I said. "Can I get you anything?"

"Better judgment would be nice. Think I'm going to take a quick shower."

Peter, who was sharing a room with Harry, called out, "Good idea. We'll wait for you."

Hearing the shower turn on, Peter and I sat down on the top steps of the staircase. He wrapped his arm around me. Closing my eyes, I breathed in his familiar scent and leaned my head against his shoulder. For a moment, my anxiety about Chloe vanished and all was right with my world. Somewhere down the hall, I heard one of the bedroom doors open and shut.

"Poor guy," said Peter with a shake of his head. "I wonder if he'll remember any of this in the morning."

"Well, if he doesn't, Roni certainly will."

Peter grimaced. "I gotta tell you. I debated not pulling his hand back. That woman is vile. What do you think she'll do to Harry?"

"I don't know. But Avery is putty in her hands. I can only imagine what she'll say or suggest as punishment. But one thing is for sure, Harry's in a world of trouble."

We both fell silent and sat listening to the steady stream of water from the shower. After ten minutes or so, Harry emerged wearing a towel, appearing chagrined but more coherent. Peter and I pulled apart and stood up. "Sorry about that, guys," said Harry. "I feel like a real a.s.s."

"Don't be silly, Harry," I said. "You lost your temper, that's all."

Harry looked down at his feet. "That's not all I've lost, I think." Shaking his head, he slowly walked down the hall to his room.

"He'll be okay, right?" I asked Peter.

"Yeah. I'll keep an eye on him. But I think the worst is over. Except for his headache tomorrow morning."

We said a quick good night. I know the kiss I gave Peter was tempered by my insecurity at seeing him with Chloe. Was it my imagination, or was Peter's kiss tempered as well?

I headed for my room. Opening the door, I fumbled with the wall light switch before remembering that it didn't work. As Bridget was at a hotel tonight, Megan had been moved into my room. Switching on the nightstand lamp, I was relieved to see that Megan wasn't there. I wasn't up to making small talk. I wanted to get my thoughts in order. Quickly changing into my pajamas, I wearily crawled into bed. Peter was not the kind of man to cheat or lie, I told myself. Granted, as a child he'd been a creep, but he'd outgrown that. I mentally listed all the reasons why I could trust Peter and sternly reminded myself that he was not like my other boyfriends. Besides, after tomorrow, Chloe would be gone, along with all the tables and chairs and other paraphernalia of the wedding. Peter and I were headed for Cape Cod to visit my Aunt Winnie and spend some much needed time together before Peter left for London. He was leaving next week and would be gone for almost three months helping his parents open another hotel. It would be a long separation, but everything would be okay. I tried to ignore the nasty little voice that mocked this a.s.sumption. After twenty minutes of these mental gymnastics, I reached over and turned out the light. Megan still wasn't back. I glanced at the clock. It was two thirty. Unconcerned, I shrugged mentally and rolled over. I had been seventeen once, too.

CHAPTER 8.

Death . . . a melancholy and shocking extremity.

-JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY A loud rumble woke me. I lay curled into my pillow for several seconds, disorientated at not being in my own bed. The rumbling continued and I reluctantly lifted my head. The movement sent waves of pain across my skull. Through the soft white curtains I could see heavy, fat clouds thundering across a bleak gray sky. Some people get a twinge in their joints before a storm; I get a migraine.

The storm's real action hadn't started yet, but it was clearly only a matter of time. The digital clock next to my bed read seven A.M. Brunch wasn't scheduled until noon, so I laid my throbbing head carefully down onto my pillow, intent on going back to sleep. The problem was, I couldn't.

I rolled over, remembering a recent article I'd read touting the healing benefits of deep breathing and soothing thoughts. While methodically forcing air in and out of my lungs, I congratulated myself on surviving Bridget's wedding. I had not had a nervous breakdown or taken up smoking. Granted, I'd devoured enough hors d'oeuvres, pet.i.ts fours, and tea sandwiches over the last few months to last me a lifetime, but that was rectifiable with a few serious weeks at the gym. The thought of physical activity set off new stabs of pain, so I shifted gears. In just a few hours Peter and I would leave for Aunt Winnie's B and B on the Cape. However, thinking of Peter stirred up another memory. Viewed in the cool light of day, most late-night melodrama looks silly. Unfortunately, from the way my stomach twisted at the memory of Peter and Chloe standing close together, it was obvious that it would take more than the light of day-cool or otherwise-to banish my insecurities.

Deciding that the deep-breathing-think-happy-thoughts method of pain reduction was a load of bunk, I opted for the tried-and-true means of aspirin and coffee. Pushing aside the bedcovers, I sat up, held my head against the sudden throbbing, and looked around. The bed where Megan should have been sleeping was empty. From the look of the neat, smooth sheets, it had been empty all night.

Gulping down three aspirin with a mouthful of water, I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and quietly padded downstairs. From the silence, I gathered I was the only one up. I slipped into the kitchen in search of coffee. Sadly, there was a decided lack of that healing odor. I started a pot, then I poked around until I found the bagels. Minutes later, with a large mug of steaming coffee and a toasted bagel in tow, I headed for the dining room, only to come to a sudden halt in the doorway; the room was set for the brunch. The table was overflowing with elaborate flower arrangements, sparkling crystal, delicate china, and gleaming silverware. All that was missing was a large plaque reading DO NOT TOUCH. I backed out slowly, deciding the terrace was a safer option.

Outside, the air was thick with the impending deluge. Overnight, the temperature had dropped and the leaves on the magnolia tress danced and swayed to the wind's increasing tempo. Below me, the catering crew scrambled about, folding up the chairs, tables, and tents, working quickly to get everything stored away before the rain started. Inadvertently, my eyes searched the grounds for Chloe. My search was rewarded, if that's the right word. She stood off to the left of the house, barking orders into her walkie-talkie and checking her clipboard as usual. Her silky hair was pulled back into her trademark ponytail and she was wearing another one of her perfectly tailored suits. Although I couldn't actually see from where I was standing, I was ninety-nine percent sure her teeth were gleaming and her skin was dewy fresh. She'd also probably risen at dawn, eaten a handful of nuts and berries, and gone for a six-mile run.

Conscious of my ratty jeans, unwashed hair, and nondewy everything, I opted to drink my coffee and eat my calorie-packed bagel slathered with cream cheese in the privacy of the side terrace. Out of view, out of mind, I told myself.

Several chairs and chaise longues were arranged in front of the rose trellis. Settling into one of the cushioned chairs, I saw that I was not alone after all. On another chaise, a rec.u.mbent figure lay under one of the wool quilts Elise kept outside for chilly nights. Was this where Megan had spent the night?

Fat drops of rain splattered onto the patio, slowly at first and then increasing in tempo. A bolt of lightning crackled against the dark sky. It was going to be a h.e.l.l of a storm. I gathered my coffee and bagel and stood up.

"Megan?" I called out. "You've got to wake up. It's starting to rain. What are you doing out here, anyway?"

When I didn't receive an answer, I reluctantly put my coffee and bagel back on the side table and walked toward her. As I neared the chair, my foot kicked something. Stooping down to pick it up, I saw that it was a white plastic hotel key card. I raised my voice and tried again. "Megan? Are you okay? Come on, we need to go inside now." Again there was no response. I reached out to nudge her, gently pulling back the blanket. Staring down in astonishment, I saw that I was wrong on both counts. It was not Megan and she wasn't asleep. It was Roni, and unless I was very much mistaken, she was dead.

She was lying on her side, her beautiful eyes wide and staring. The silent grimace of her lips reminded me of Edvard Munch's painting The Scream. Except Roni's hands weren't clutching her head; they were frozen, clawlike, at the place in her chest where a large kitchen knife protruded.

I must have started screaming, but I don't really remember. I found myself at the other end of the terrace surrounded by the catering staff and soaked from the rain.

"Hey, lady," said a man with arms roughly the size of my thighs. His blue catering T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. "Are you all right?"

I shook my head and silently pointed at Roni's body. I couldn't find my voice. Mr. Big Arms shot me a funny look and walked over to where Roni lay. I dragged my eyes away from the horrific sight of Roni sprawled on the chaise, fighting the waves of nausea rolling through my stomach, and forced myself to concentrate on the rose-covered trellis. But there was no relief to be found there. All my eyes could see were those roses that were now wilted and dying, their delicate petals edged in brown. Death, it seemed, was all around me.

The other staff stood protectively around me, making a.s.sorted calming noises. Someone opened an umbrella and held it over my head. Mr. Big Arms looked down at the body. "Jesus!" he said, staring back at me in astonishment. "This woman's dead!" The other members of the staff abandoned their attempts to comfort me and quickly edged over to get a look, taking the umbrella with them. Ghouls. Mr. Big Arms looked at me again, a wary expression now on his face. "Did you do this?"

My voice came back in a rush. "No! Of course not! I just found her. Oh, G.o.d. We need to call the police. I've got to tell the family!" I looked around anxiously. Chloe was just coming up the terrace steps. "Elizabeth?" she said. "Is something wrong?" Just as I had suspected, she was dewy fresh. "Roni's dead!" I said in a jumble. "Over there." I pointed behind me to where a rapidly growing crowd of men in blue T-shirts grouped around the chaise.

Chloe's eyes slid to where I pointed. "Eric! What's going on?"

Eric, aka Mr. Big Arms, popped his head up. "She's right, Ms. Jenkins. There's a body here."

I pushed past Chloe. "Call the police," I yelled at her over my shoulder. I bolted into the house, and taking the stairs two at a time, dripping and sobbing, ran straight to Peter's room. I pounded frantically on his door until he opened it. "Elizabeth?" he said, as I fell into his arms. "What's going on? You're sopping wet."

I buried my head in his chest. "It's Roni. I found her outside. She's dead."

Peter grabbed both of my arms and eased me back. "Dead? Are you sure?"

The horrible image of Roni's dead, staring eyes came back to me and I pushed his hands away. "Yes, I'm sure. I'm not a medical expert, but usually when someone has blank, staring eyes and a large kitchen knife sticking out of her chest, it's a pretty safe bet that she's not coming back."

"Christ! Are you okay?"

I covered my face with my hands and realized that I was still clutching the hotel key. "No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just . . . it's just so awful. She's lying out there . . . dead!" I looked down at the plastic card. It was from the Jefferson Hotel.

"What's that?" Peter asked. Silently, I handed him the key. Confusion registered in his eyes.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"It was outside. By . . . by the body." My legs turned to jelly. I must have swayed because Peter suddenly caught me and pulled me close. "Jesus. This is unbelievable," he murmured.

Behind him, I could see Harry sprawled across his bed. He was snoring.

"Have you called the police?" Peter asked.

"No. I asked Chloe to do it."

"Chloe's here?" Peter asked with surprise.

My stomach lurched at the sound of his voice saying her name, but now didn't seem the time to address the matter. "Yes," I said, pulling away. I peeked up at him. He looked terrible. His face was haggard and his eyes bleary. "She and the crew were out back taking down all the chairs and stuff. They all ran over when I started screaming."

"I guess we'd better let everyone here know what's happened. Before the police arrive."

We both turned and looked at Harry. He let out another loud snore. "He did that all night," said Peter wearily, running his hand through his hair. "For some reason, I couldn't get to sleep last night. I read until around three and even after that I didn't sleep very well. I doubt I slept more than two hours."

"Well, we'd better wake him," I said. "I think he should be the one to break the news to Avery."

Waking Harry and telling him that Roni was dead was not easy. Not because Harry was upset or anything. He was just extremely hungover. For the first five minutes, he swatted at Peter and me as if we were nothing more than bothersome flies. For the next five minutes, he seemed to think we were playing a prank on him. It was only when he heard the sirens screaming up the driveway that he took us seriously.

Within a half hour the whole house was up and gathered in the living room under the watchful eye of one Detective Paul Grant. He was probably only in his early fifties, but his sun-ravaged face and prematurely gray hair made him appear older. With his wide, solid body, blunt features, and crooked nose, he looked like an ex-boxer. Dressed expensively in a tailored gray pin-striped suit, crisp white linen shirt, and red-and-cream-striped silk tie, he looked like an ex-boxer who had done very well for himself. From the way he studied us with hooded gray eyes, he also looked as if he didn't like us very much.

I can't say that I blamed him. We didn't present a particularly caring picture. Harry had to excuse himself twice to throw up. By comparison, David looked almost healthy. Claire stared bleakly out the terrace window, methodically chewing her fingernails. Blythe sat woodenly on the sofa, repeatedly offering to get breakfast started. It was an offer no one took her up on. Behind her, Graham paced up and down the carpet, trying to reach Bridget on her cell phone. Elsie sat in her usual high-backed chair. She watched Detective Grant with a thoughtful expression. Anna lay at her feet, alert and watchful. The only one who showed any real emotion over Roni's death was Avery. After telling Detective Grant that he'd gone straight to bed after leaving the reception and had slept through the night, he'd fallen into a zombielike silence. He sat off to one side, slumped over in his chair, his head buried in his hands. Next to him, Millie stood with her arms firmly crossed over her ma.s.sive chest, watching her patient with worried eyes.

A soft tapping at the French doors caught my attention, and everyone else's for that matter. It was Chloe. She stood uncertainly on the threshold between the patio and the living room, her perfectly manicured hands still on the door, the heavy rain providing an almost Wuthering Heightslike backdrop for her beautiful image. Next to me, Peter stiffened. Just what the h.e.l.l was the attraction with her, anyway? I mean, other than the fact that she was beautiful . . . and thin . . . and talented . . . and . . . I stopped. Not because I'd run out of things to list, unfortunately, but because the potential length of the list was making me nauseous.

"Excuse me?" Chloe said. "I was told that a Detective Grant wanted to see me."

"Are you Chloe Jenkins?" Detective Grant asked. His appraising glance took in her snug little black gabardine suit, still crisp and clean despite the torrential rain outside. Even her black leather boots were spotless. Detective Grant tipped his head forward infinitesimally in a nod of approval. So she's pretty and dresses nicely, I wanted to sneer. What kind of idiot wears leather boots-Prada leather boots, no less-during a rainstorm?

"I'm Chloe," she answered. "Are you Detective Grant?"

"Yes. Please come in. I understand that you were on-site when Ms. Parker discovered the body?"

"Yes, sir," Chloe answered, her eyes flickering in my direction. But her gaze did not rest on me. Instead, it landed slightly to my right, where Peter sat. I suppressed a childish urge to frantically wave my hand and call out, "Over here, dear!"

"I see. Please take a seat, Ms. . . ." Detective Grant looked down at his notebook bound in glossy black leather and paused. "Is it Miss or Mrs. Jenkins?" he asked politely. Again Chloe's gaze briefly landed on Peter before she answered wistfully, "It's Miss."

Was she kidding? She couldn't have been more obvious if she'd wrapped her bra around her house key and flung it at Peter's head. I looked about the room at everyone else to gauge their reactions to this gaudy spectacle, but no one had seemed to notice. Their eyes were all steadily focused on Detective Grant.

He cleared his throat. "I will need to take a statement from everyone. Is there somewhere private I can do that?" His voice was surprisingly soft, completely at odds with his appearance.

"I think the study will suit your needs admirably," Elsie said. She rose gracefully from her chair and walked past Detective Grant. "If you will just follow me."

Detective Grant turned and followed her. Pausing at the study's doorway, she politely ushered him inside. "Would you care for any coffee or tea while you work?" she asked.

"Coffee would be fine."

"Cream? Sugar?"

"No, thank you."

"Are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat? I'm sure we have plenty."

"No, thank you," he repeated firmly.

Elsie nodded her head briskly. "Coffee it is then. Black. I'll just be a moment. Whom shall I send in first?" Elsie's solicitous tone and conversation seemed to catch Detective Grant off guard. As I'm sure Elsie intended.

Detective Grant squared his shoulders in an attempt to regain control of the conversation. "I'd like to talk to the young lady who discovered the body." He flipped through his notebook and read, "Ms. Elizabeth Parker."

At the sound of my name, my headache, which had started to subside, came back in full force. I stood up on shaky legs. "That's me," I said in a voice that was more of a squeak. Next to me, Peter grabbed my hand and gave it a rea.s.suring squeeze.

Detective Grant's eyes locked on mine. I had the sensation that he was searching my soul-and didn't like what he'd found. As he had done with Chloe, his eyes quickly took in my outfit, touching briefly on my old flip-flops. Just as quickly, he looked away, as if offended by what he saw. There would be no nod of approval for me, I thought. After a brief pause, he gave a curt dip of his head and disappeared into the study. I took an unsteady step in his direction. Elsie reached out and grabbed my arm.

Leaning in close, she whispered fiercely, "Delay him all you can, Elizabeth. We've got to find Megan before that man realizes she's missing!"

Delay him? Me? Was she kidding? I had been known to freeze up when a cute guy asked me what time it was. Did Elsie really think I had the wherewithal to battle wits with the likes of Detective Grant?

My ineffectual sputterings of reluctance were ignored. Still holding tightly on to my arm, she marched me toward the study. Rapping her knuckles briskly on the open door, she thrust me inside. "Here she is, Detective Grant," she said brightly. "Now, I'll just go and get that coffee."

With one last meaningful look at me, she shut the door firmly behind her. I turned back to Detective Grant. His blunt features were bunched in a ferocious scowl. Not at me, but at the door where Elsie had just stood.

Outside, heavy rain splattered against the terrace doors. Thunder and lightning blasted across the black sky. The overhead chandelier flickered, sending dark shadows across Detective Grant's unsmiling face.

And I was supposed to stay in this room with him as long as I could. The story of Daniel and the lions came to mind. All things being equal, I think I would have preferred the lions.