"Don't worry about it." Roarke got to his feet, skimmed his fingertips down her cheek. "Take care, Lieutenant." "Right."

"Occupational hazard." Roarke sat again when he was alone with Phoebe and Sam. "Someone's died," Sam said aloud, "Yes, someone's died. And now," Roarke said, "they'll work to find the balance."

CHAPTER 3

Walter C. Pettibone, the birthday boy, had arrived home at precisely seven-thirty. One hundred and seventy-three friends and associates had shouted "Surprise!" in unison the minute he'd walked in the door.

But that hadn't killed him.

He'd beamed like a boy, playfully scolded his wife for fooling him, and had greeted his guests with warmth and pleasure. By eight, the party was in full swing, and Walter had indulged lavishly in the enormous and varied spread of food the caterers provided. He ate quail's eggs and caviar, smoked salmon and spinach rolls.

But that hadn't killed him either.

He'd danced with his wife, embraced his children, and dashed away a little tear at his son's sentimental birthday toast. And had survived.

At eight-forty-five, with his arm snug around his wife's waist, he lifted yet another glass of champagne, called for his guests' attention, and launched into a short but heartfelt speech regarding the sum of a man's life and the riches therein when he was blessed with friends and family.

"To you," he said, in a voice thick with emotion, "my dear friends, my thanks for sharing this day with me. To my children, who make me proud-thank you for all the joy you've brought me. And to my beautiful wife, who makes every day a day I'm grateful to be alive."

There was a nice round of applause, then Walter tipped back his glass, drank deep. And that's what killed him.

He choked, his eyes bugged. His wife let out a little shriek as he clawed at the collar of his shirt. His son slapped him enthusiastically on the back. Staggering, he pitched forward into the party guests, tipping several of them over like bowling pins before he hit the ground and starting having seizures.

One of the guests was a doctor, and pushed forward to lend aid.

The emergency medical technicians were called, and though they responded within five minutes, Walter was already gone.

The shot of cyanide in his toasting flute had been an unexpected birthday gift.

Eve studied him, the slight blue tinge around the mouth, the shocked and staring eyes. Caught the faint and telling whiff of burnt almonds. They'd moved him onto a sofa and loosened his shirt in the initial attempt to revive him. No one had swept away the broken glass and china as of yet. The room smelled strongly of flowers, wine, chilled shrimp, and fresh death.

Walter C. Pettibone, she thought, who'd gone in and out of the world on the same day. A tidy circle, but one most human beings would prefer to avoid.

"I want to see the doctor who worked on him first," she told Peabody, then scanned the floor. "We'll need to have all this broken shit taken in, identify which container or containers were spiked. Nobody leaves. That's guests and staff. McNab, you can start taking names and addresses for followups. Keep the family separate for now."

"Looks like it would've been a hell of a party," McNab commented as he headed out.

"Lieutenant. Dr. Peter Vance." Peabody escorted in a man of medium build. He had short, sandy-colored hair and a short, sandy- colored beard. When his gaze shifted past her to Walter Pettibone's body, Eve saw both grief and anger harden his eyes.

"That was a good man." His voice was clipped and faintly British. "A good friend."

"Someone wasn't his friend," Eve pointed out. "You recognized that he'd been poisoned, instructed the MTs to notify the police."

"That's correct. The signs were textbook, and we lost him very quickly." He looked away from the body and back at Eve. "I want to believe it was a mistake, some horrible accident. But it wasn't. He'd just finished giving a rather schmaltzy little toast, so like him. He was standing with his arm around his wife, his son and daughter and their spouses beside him. He had a big grin on his face and tears in his eyes. We applauded, he drank, then he choked. Collapsed right here and began having seizures. It was over in minutes. There was nothing to be done."

"Where did he get the drink?"

"I couldn't say. The caterer's staff was passing around champagne.

Other beverages could be had from the bars that were set up here and there. Most of us had been here since about seven. Bambi was frantic about all of the guests being in place when Walt arrived home."

"Bambi?"

"His wife." Vance replied. "Second wife. They've been married a year or so now. She's been planning this surprise party for weeks.

I'm sure Walt knew all about it. She's not what you'd call a clever woman. But he pretended to be surprised." "What time did he get here?"

"Seven-thirty, on the nose. We all yelled surprise per Bambi's instructions. Had a good laugh out of it, then went back to eating, drinking. There was some dancing. Walt made the rounds. His son made a toast." Vance sighed. "I wish I'd paid more attention. I'm sure Walt was drinking champagne."

"Did you see him drink at that time?"

"I think..." He shut his eyes as if to bring it all back. "It seems to me he did. I can't imagine him not drinking after a toast by his son. Walt doted on his children. I believe he had a fresh glass-it seems to me it was full- when he made his own little toast. But I can't say for certain whether he picked it off a tray or someone handed it to him."

"You were friends?"

Grief clouded his face again. "Good friends, yes." "Any problems in his marriage?"

Vance shook his head. "He was blissful. Frankly, most of us who knew him were baffled when he married Bambi. He was married to Shelly for, what would it be? More than thirty years, I suppose. Their divorce was amicable enough, as divorces go. Then within six months he was involved with Bambi. Most of us thought it was just some midlife foolishness, but it stuck."

"Was his first wife here tonight?"

"No. They weren't quite that amicable." "Anyone you know of who'd want him dead?"

"Absolutely no one." He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "I know saying he didn't have an enemy in the world is a cliche, Lieutenant Dallas, but that's exactly what I'd say about Walt. People liked him, and a great many people loved him. He was a sweet- natured man, a generous employer, a devoted father."

And a wealthy one, Eve thought after she'd released the doctor. A wealthy man who'd dumped wife number-one for a younger, sexier model. As people didn't bring cyanide as a party favor, someone had been there tonight for the express purpose of killing Pettibone.

Eve did the interview with the second wife in a sitting room off the woman's bedroom.

The room was dim, the heavy pink drapes drawn tight over the windows so that the single lamp with its striped shade provided a candy-colored light.

In it, Eve could see the room, all pink and white and frothy. Like the inside of a sugar-loaded pastry, she thought. There were mountains of pillows, armies of trinkets, and the heavy scent of too many roses in one space.

Amid the girlish splendor, Bambi Pettibone reclined on a pink satin chaise. Her hair was curled and braided and tinted in that same carnival pink to set off a baby-doll face. She wore pink as well, a shimmering ensemble that dipped low over one breast and left the other to be flirtily exposed but for a patch of sheer material shaped like a rose.

Her big blue eyes shimmered prettily with the tears that trickled in tiny, graceful drops down her smooth cheeks. The face spoke of youth and innocence, but the body told another story altogether.

She held a fluffy white ball in her lap. "Mrs. Pettibone?"

She let out a gurgling sound and pushed her face into the white ball.

When the ball let out a quick yip, Eve decided it was, possibly, some sort of dog.

"I'm Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. This is my aide, Officer Peabody. I'm very sorry for your loss." "Boney's dead. My sweet Boney."

Boney and Bambi, Eve thought. What was wrong with people? "I know this is a difficult time." Eve glanced around, decided she had no choice but to sit on something fluffy and pink. "But I need to ask you some questions."

"I just wanted to give him a birthday party. Everyone came. We were having such a good time. He never even got to open his presents."

She wailed the last of it, and the little puff ball on her lap produced a pink tongue and licked her face.

"Mrs. Pettibone... could I have your legal name for the record?" "I'm Bambi."

"For real? Never mind. You were standing next to your husband when he collapsed." "He was saying such nice things about everybody. He really liked the party." She sniffled, looked imploringly at Eve. "That's something, isn't it? He was happy when it happened."

"Did you give him the champagne for his toast, Mrs. Pettibone?"

"Boney loved champagne." There was a sentimental and soggy sigh.

"It was his very, very favorite. We had caterers. I wanted everything just so. I told Mr. Markie to be sure his servers passed champagne the whole time. And canapes, too. I worked really hard to make it perfect for my sweet Boney. Then he got so sick, and it happened so fast. If I'd known he was sick, we wouldn't have had a party.

But he was fine when he left this morning. He was just fine."

"Do you understand what happened to your husband?"

She hugged the puffball dog, buried her face in its fluff. "He got sick.

Peter couldn't make him better."