Logan Manning's funeral service was a media event, attended by five hundred business, political, and community leaders as well as prominent members of the arts and entertainment world. Two hundred of the mourners joined the funeral procession to the cemetery afterward and stood in the cold and mist to bid a final farewell to the slain socialite and to pay their respects to his famous widow.

Notably absent from those services was Michael Valente, and though the media was quick to remark on that in their news coverage that evening, they had focused all their attention on familiar faces and recognizable names among those present. The photographers who lined up at the chapel and followed the funeral procession to the cemetery did not waste any film on an elegantly attired, gray-haired woman in her early seventies who was last in line to speak to the widow at the graveside.

No one paid any attention when the woman took Leigh's hands in hers, and only Leigh heard what she said: "My nephew felt his presence here today would only distract from the solemn occasion. I have come instead to represent our family."

Although she looked like several of Logan's elderly, well-to-do relatives, her eyes were more compa.s.sionate, and her voice held the soft lilt of Italian that instantly reminded Leigh of the warm welcomes she had always received at Angelini's Market years before.

"Mrs. Angelini?" Leigh said, squeezing her gloved hands. "It's so kind of you to come!" Leigh thought she had wept herself dry of all tears, but the kindness in the woman's eyes, her thoughtfulness for standing out in the freezing cold, pushed Leigh to the brink of tears all over again. "It's much too cold and damp for you out here."

No other elderly people who had attended the funeral service had braved the elements at the cemetery. They'd either gone home afterward or gone to Leigh's apartment, where caterers were serving food. Leigh invited Mrs. Angelini to go there, but she refused. "May I drop you somewhere?" Leigh asked her as they walked past the sea of headstones toward the line of automobiles parked in the street.

"I have a car." Mrs. Angelini nodded toward a uniformed chauffeur who was holding open the rear door of a black Bentley. Leigh recognized the chauffeur at once.

"Please tell Michael I'll call him soon," Leigh added as Mrs. Angelini slid into the backseat.

"I will tell him." She hesitated as if weighing her words very carefully.

"Leigh, if you need anything, you must tell him. He will not fail you as others have."

CHAPTER 33.

Brenna had arranged for Payard, the French bistro and patisserie, to provide the food at the apartment after the funeral. By the time Leigh arrived, the guests had already formed into the same groups they'd formed at Leigh's party a little over a week before, except that now the primary topic of conversation was the ident.i.ty of Logan's murderer.

Leigh moved mechanically from group to group, accepting condolences and listening to all the trite things people say in a helpless, futile effort to make the darkest occasion in human experience seem somehow less tragic. Logan's friends and family were the " Chin up, Buck up, Stiff upper lip," crowd. Judge Maxwell patted her shoulder and solemnly said, "It may not seem like it now, but there are brighter days ahead. Life goes on, my dear."

Senator Hollenbeck said, "You're strong, you'll make it." His wife voiced her agreement, but in a more personal way: "I thought my life was over when my first husband died, but I made it and so will you."

Logan's ancient great-aunt, one of the few surviving members of his immediate family, laid her blue-veined hand on Leigh's sleeve, peered long and solemnly at her, and said, "What was your name, dear?"

Leigh's friends tended to demonstrate their empathy and sympathy by describing the effect Logan's death was having on them. As a group, their att.i.tude was, " This is a tragedy for you and for everyone who knew Logan."

Theta Berenson had worn one of her most somber and conservative hats-a black one with a huge brim adorned with white silk fruit and black berries, but no feathers. "I'm just devastated for you," the artist told Leigh. "Positively devastated. I keep thinking about that weekend we all spent together in Maine, and I've decided to paint the harbor scene the way I remember it. I want you to have it when it's finished."

Claire Straight, who was embroiled in a bitter, ongoing divorce battle, hugged Leigh and indignantly said, "There's no justice in this world! Logan is dead, while Charles-that b.a.s.t.a.r.d-goes right on living. I'm so furious with fate that I can't get over it. I've started seeing Sheila Winters for help with anger management."

Jason was with Jane Sebring and Eric. He looked more distraught than Leigh had ever seen him. "Darling, what you're going through is tearing me to pieces.

You need to come back to work soon. Logan would want you to go on with your life."

Jane Sebring had been crying. Her face was pale, her beautiful eyes were shadowed and without makeup, and she was upset enough not to care about her looks. "I just can't believe it's true," she told Leigh. "I have nightmares about it, and I wake up thinking this is all a bad dream, but it isn't."

Sybil Haywood, who had taken Michael Valente off Leigh's hands the night of the party, was stricken with grief and guilt. "I'm completely to blame for this,"

she told Leigh fiercely.

"Sybil, that's ridiculous-"

"It isn't! If I had been a true friend-the kind you deserve to have-I would have finished your chart in time for your birthday. I wouldn't have let business get in the way of friendship. Well, I've finished it now; and it was all there-tragedy and violence. I could have forewarned you-"

The astrologer was so filled with self-blame that Leigh offered her the one consolation she could give. "I'll tell you a little secret," Leigh confided, sliding her arm around Sybil's waist. "It wouldn't have made a bit of difference if you'd finished that chart and given it to me."

"What do you mean?"

"Logan thought astrology was a farce. I believe in you, and in your honesty and dedication to it, but I'm..." She paused to choose her words carefully. "... a little ambivalent about it."

Instead of being comforted by that, Sybil was hurt and very disappointed.

Sheila Winters was the one steady, shining light in the entire day. She was at Leigh's side often, sensing when she was needed. She arrived just as Leigh finished talking to Jane, and she stayed there through Sybil's comments. "You need a few minutes alone now," she said. "You've been giving more comfort than you're getting from a lot of these people."

"I'll rest later," Leigh said. She felt limp with exhaustion, but she didn't want to leave, even for a few minutes. The people who were there had come out of respect and affection for Logan, and she loved each and every one of them that day for going to the trouble to do it.

Exempted from her affection and goodwill were the half dozen plainclothes detectives, including Littleton, McCord, and Shrader, who'd been at the funeral and were now stationed throughout the apartment. Detectives Littleton and Shrader had persuaded her that Logan's murderer might be among the mourners.

Without saying so, they implied that Leigh's life might also be in danger from the killer. Leigh thought the notion absurd, but she didn't have the strength to argue with anyone about anything yet. Until yesterday, she'd convinced herself that Logan's murder had been a case of mistaken ident.i.ty or, more likely, the act of someone who'd been living near the mountain property and felt it belonged to him.

Whenever she happened to notice one of the detectives, she nodded politely, but she let them fend for themselves. No one knew they were present, and no one took any notice of them-no one, except Courtney Maitland. To Leigh's astonishment, the teenager spotted all of them, including Sam Littleton, and she arrived at Leigh's side with a plate of food for Leigh and a side order of astute observations. "I count six cops," she whispered to Leigh. "Am I close, or have I missed some?"

Courtney had met Logan only once, for a few moments. She was not grief-stricken over his death, and she was too forthright and honest to put on a funeral face. Leigh hugged her tightly. "You're right on target. How did you know?"

"You're kidding, right?'' Courtney said with a grin.

"No, I'm serious."

"Who else but cops would go to a gathering like this and not talk to anyone-or look for anyone to talk to? They're not eating, they're not sad, and they're not -" She broke off.

"Not what?"

"Let's just say they're not trying very hard to make a fashion statement. The tall guy with the gray hair is interesting." She nodded toward McCord, and Leigh followed her gaze, mostly because it was a relief to be talking about something else. "He's interesting because he's got those great scars and that lean, tough face. The brunette was the hardest one of all to pick out as a cop."

"Because she's a woman?"

"No, because she's wearing seven-hundred-dollar Bottega Veneta boots."

CHAPTER 34.

Sheila stayed after everyone left, and while Hilda and the caterers cleaned up, the two women went into Leigh's bedroom. Leigh curled up on one of the chaise lounges near the window and wearily rested her head against the back of it.

Sheila did the same thing on the other one.

"Jane Sebring was genuinely upset by all this," Leigh commented after a moment.

"I'm not surprised. She probably thinks she's the widow."

Leigh looked sharply at her. Although Sheila's chocolate wool suit was without a crease and her blond hair was swept up into a chignon without a hair out of place, there were dark blue smudges beneath her eyes, and her voice was taut with exhaustion and annoyance. "Why did you say that?"

"Because it's perfectly obvious to me that Jane Sebring wants to be you. She can't stand being second-best in anything. When she couldn't make it on Broadway, she went to Hollywood, took off her clothes for the camera, and won an Academy Award. But that wasn't enough. Now she's come back to Broadway to claim what she regards as her birthright, and you're in her way. In her mind, you've 'stolen' what is rightfully hers. She feels ent.i.tled to your enormous talent, your success in the legitimate theater and everything else you have."

"Unfortunately, that att.i.tude is not all that unusual in my business, Sheila."

Sheila crossed her feet at the ankles, and sighed. "I know. She's just so d.a.m.ned greedy and compet.i.tive. I'll never understand what possessed Jason to put her in his play in the first place. She has a reputation for causing trouble with everyone she's ever worked with."

"Money was the reason," Leigh said wearily. "Jason's backers wanted her because she's a fantastic box-office draw."

"Not like you are."

"She draws movie fans into the theater, which is something I don't. She was a bonus-an insurance policy the backers wanted."

Sheila said nothing after that, and Leigh closed her eyes, trying not to wonder, to think, to place any particular significance on what Sheila had said.

But she couldn't do it. She drew in a long, unsteady breath and kept her eyes closed, but her voice was determined. "Sheila?"

"Yes."

"Are you trying to tell me something you think I should know-"

"Like what?"

"Was Logan having an affair with Jane Sebring?"

Sheila was instantly apologetic. "I should have realized that we're both too exhausted to put coherent thoughts together. I wasn't trying to tell you anything of the kind. In fact, I watched her when she stopped by your party for a few minutes. She was hanging on Logan, but he did everything to cool her down, short of dousing her with the ice in his gla.s.s."

Leigh swallowed and forced words past the knot of emotion in her throat.

"Let me put the question a different way: Do you think it's possible Logan was having an affair with her?"

"Anything is 'possible.' It's possible Logan might have taken up hang-gliding next week or joined the circus. Why are you pursuing this, Leigh?"

Leigh opened her eyes and looked directly at Sheila. "Because the last time you developed a severe personal dislike for a woman that we all knew socially, it turned out Logan was having an affair with her and you knew it."

Sheila returned her gaze unflinchingly. "That was a meaningless fling, and you understood why it happened. The two of you worked through that together."

Leigh pushed that painful memory to the back of her mind. Logan's fling had not been "meaningless" to her. "I've tried to convince myself that Logan's murder was a random act committed by some homeless, local madman who thought Logan was trespa.s.sing or something," Leigh said. "There's just one thing about that theory that doesn't work."

"What's that?"

"The gun they found in Logan's car was registered to him. He bought it in March. Why would Logan buy a gun and carry it? Is it possible he was in some sort of trouble?"

Instead of giving her an answer, Sheila studied her intently and asked a question of her own. "What sort of trouble could he have been in?"

Leigh lifted her hands, palms up. "I don't know. He was involved in dozens of business ventures, but he didn't seem to be particularly worried about any one of them. Even so, there were times lately when he seemed distinctly worried about something."

"Did you ask him about it?"

"Of course. He said he wasn't worried. Maybe 'worried' was the wrong word for me to use just now. He seemed very preoccupied."

Sheila smiled knowingly. "Would you call it 'unusual' for Logan to be preoccupied about business or money?"

She meant that to be a rea.s.surance, Leigh knew, but in her present, conflicted state of mind, Leigh couldn't find much solace in anything. "No, of course not.

You and I both know there isn't enough money in the world to make Logan feel absolutely secure."

"Because of his childhood," Sheila reminded her.

"I know. But has Logan ever said or done anything that might have made you think-"

"I'm a psychiatrist, not a psychic. Let the police solve this. You and I aren't equipped to do it."

"You're right," Leigh said, but long after Sheila left, Leigh sat alone in the dark, asking herself questions she couldn't answer, tortured by the fear that she might never have the answers.

For some reason, Logan had bought and carried a gun.

For some reason, someone had murdered him in cold blood.

Leigh wanted reasons. She wanted answers. She wanted justice!

But most of all-most of all-she wanted the same thing Jane Sebring wanted. She wanted to wake up and discover that this was all a nightmare.

CHAPTER 35.

dubbed the "Good Samaritan" sat down with his attorney in the interviewing room. McCord and Littleton sat down across the table from them.

"I'm Julie Cosgrove," the attorney said, "and this is Mr. Roswell." Roswell was in his mid-sixties, with a dissipated, weathered face, bad teeth, and a guilty, nervous smile. His jacket was torn at the right elbow, and the soiled cap that he politely removed as he sat down proclaimed him to be an aficionado of Coors.

"Mr. Roswell has answers to all your questions," the attorney continued.