LITMIR.BIZ

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But unlikely.”

      “Yeah.”

      “Guess we better take a look at all the tapes, Bud. It wouldn’t hurt to go back to the day Sylvie Border arrived at Cedar Bend and see if we can find anybody else paying a call on her. Might even pay to check out her previous visits, if Black keeps his tapes that long.”

      “Okay, I’ll confiscate as many as I can. We can go halves on watchin’ them. I like to share the fun with you, podna.”

      Oh, these Southerners.

      “Miki gave us the okay, so have somebody get them together for us to review while we take statements from the staff.”

      The individual questioning took the rest of the day. I talked to countless maids, kitchen and room service people, and Bud rounded up everyone else who worked at the lodge. After a forty-minute session with an eighteen-year-old maid so scared she stuttered everything she said, I called it a day and checked out Sylvie’s bungalow. I wanted it secure and guarded from press vultures. Bud had gone back downtown to fill in Charlie, who was supposed to be back from Jeff City by five o’clock.

      At eight minutes after six o’clock, I climbed into the Explorer and finally left the grounds of Cedar Bend. Tired, fighting one of the killer headaches I’d had for the last couple of years, I admitted things didn’t look so good for Nicholas Black. So far, he was the only person seen going in or out of the victim’s bungalow that day or the day before. And he’d visited her on five separate occasions during her two-week stay, not counting their therapy sessions up in the private quarters of his luxury digs. No one else had been seen anywhere close to the dead woman’s bungalow. Sylvie hadn’t shown up on the tapes, either, but I had a whole stack of videocassettes for homework.

      Traffic was heavy as I drove across Bagnell Dam. Boats dotted the glittering lake, many trailing water-skiers in creamy wakes. Jet Skis zipped everywhere like pesky little gnats. July was the busiest month at the lake, and Cedar Bend’s Regatta and Black’s special Fourth of July fireworks display shot from barges out on the water brought visitors in droves. That wasn’t counting the conventions at the big resorts. Cedar Bend’s concierge told me four conventions were going on there this week, with fifty more slated before the huge New Year’s Eve gala that Black threw for his friends and clients, with more fireworks, lots of champagne, and invited media.

      Today I’d bumped shoulders with about a zillion guests all decked out in shorts and conventioneer badges and black straw Panama hats, but they’d have to have 007 infiltration skills to crash the exclusive bungalows on the point. Still, the convention rosters would have to be checked out.

      My head pounded now. The traffic was horrendous, and I had to fight not to run my siren and slap the flashing light on my roof and take the shoulder home. One crawling minivan driver was so annoying that many unkind but highly descriptive remarks left my mouth in a low, muttering growl, but, hey, I didn’t yell or scream profanities or make unpleasant gestures. I am classy that way.

      Finally, finally, I pulled off Highway 54 and turned right on the private gravel road I shared with Harve Lester and Dottie Harper. Suddenly, it occurred to me that my fridge looked a lot like Sylvie Border’s had, minus the salad and wine. I ticked off my mental grocery list. Let’s see, no milk, no bread, no eggs, no bacon, no nothing. Food sounded good, but not enough to fight minivan drivers anymore. I thought I remembered a can of chili in the cabinet, but that might’ve been dog food left over for the stray black mongrel that sometimes came to call.

      My mailbox appeared, looking old and rusted and forlorn beside Harve and Dottie’s brand-new, silver, industrial-sized one, one big enough for a toddler to live in. Theirs had silver numbers that glowed in the dark; mine had numbers in faded black Magic Marker. They actually got mail. I drove on without stopping. Dottie picked up my mail and kept it in a cute little wicker basket on her front porch in case I ever showed interest in it.

      Harve Lester and I had been friends for years, and although Dottie was pretty much a disenfranchised flower child with nothing in common with either of us, she took very good care of Harve. Hiring her as his nurse and live-in housekeeper had been the smartest thing Harve had ever done.

      Harve and I were partners when I worked in L.A., and he’d fixed it for Charlie to hire me. He’d been shot in the line of duty and had no feeling below his waist. He was pretty much self-sufficient, but when Dottie had come along two years ago, it had made a huge difference in his life. She never left him alone for long, except for the weekends, when she ran around with Suze Eggers and lifted weights and kayaked and pretty much kept her athletic body in perfect condition. She was great, and a good friend to me, too.

      When I couldn’t take California anymore, Harve offered me the small A-frame fishing cabin he owned a quarter of a mile down the shore from his own house. Rent free. He’d inherited twenty acres of plum lake-front footage from his grandmother that was now worth a small fortune, and he loved it almost as much as he loved Dottie Harper. He never spoke his feelings aloud, probably because Dottie didn’t share his feelings, and kept their relationship strictly platonic, but I knew him well enough to see it in his eyes.

      Nearing Harve’s place, I saw Dottie step out of the screened porch and wave. I braked and rolled down the window.

      “Hey, Claire! Dinner’s about ready! Come on in and tell us about that murder over at Cedar Bend.”

      Great. They already knew about the murder. That didn’t bode well. Oh, yeah. Our mutual friend, Suze. “I don’t know, Dot. I’ve got a lot of work to do, and I’ve got a headache.”

      “I’m making my special lasagna with extra mozzarella. And I’ll fix you a toddy for your headache.”

      I hesitated and listened to my stomach react at the mention of Dottie’s lasagne. Dottie did Italian right. A vision of cheesy lasagna bubbling in a pan did me in.

      “Give me ten minutes to shower and change, and I’ll be over.”

      Dottie gave a thumbs-up and disappeared back into the house. The screen door banged behind her, and I drove on to my little corner of the world. I got out of my car and stood looking out at my dock, where I tied up my little jon boat, but I saw fish pecking at Sylvie Border’s ravaged face. I shut down the thought as I’d learned to do. Yep, the day was a downer, but whaddaya gonna do?

      Twenty minutes later I was clean and dressed in a different T-shirt and cutoff denim shorts and sandals and was lounging in Harve’s dining room chair, drinking an iced version of Dottie’s famous, magnificent toddy. She’d concocted it for Harve when his muscles tightened up, and it took away my headaches and relaxed me more than anything else I’d ever tried. My mood picked up the minute Harve rolled into the room in his motorized wheelchair and gave me a big smile.

      At fifty-one, he was as strong as a bull in the upper torso from fanatically lifting weights and hoisting himself in and out of his wheelchair. Although he’d had no use of his body from the waist down for years now, I’d never heard him utter one complaint. He was handsome, rugged looking. His eyes and hair were the same color, iron gray. Always positive, he actually kept my spirits up. He was my best friend in the world. “Havin’ one of those fun days, are you?” Harve rolled into place at the head of the table.

      “You got that right.” I set the silverware around the table, and that made me think of Sylvie, too, so I picked up the salad tongs and tossed Dottie’s secret recipe, her homemade Parmesan dressing, into fresh salad greens. She made the best salad dressing this side of New York City, and I popped a cucumber slice in my mouth. My stomach fussed at me for not eating all day. Sometimes my stomach hated my guts.

      Harve said, “I heard you pull out a little before dawn. That’s never a good sign.”

      Harve got up early, sometimes by four o’clock. He liked the quiet morning hours to work on his Internet business. He constructed Web sites and was damn good at it. In fact, he was a computer genius.

      “How’d you find out about the murder?”

      “Dottie heard it from Suze, and it was on the police band this morning.” That Jacqee.

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