"I like it," Tess said. "Then again, knowing the local immunity to irony, I see a men's group and the NAACP picketing out front, claiming you're glamorizing gendercide and discriminating against people of color. And those Mothers Objecting to Violence and Everything Related-you know, the MOVERS-would interpret it as a pro-violence thing."

"MOVERS! There's no such group, not even in Baltimore."

"Don't you read the paper? They've set up a permanent picket outside the multiplex in Towson. It's convenient to shopping. They march up and down for an hour, take a break, and go shop at Nordstrom."

Kitty laughed, a startlingly loud and wonderful sound. Most of the Monaghans were a little dour, even Tess. Kitty, however, was a changeling. She was the happiest person Tess knew, with an endless capacity for delight. She asked only that life be tangible, full of things to touch and hold, smell and devour. Soft fabrics, new books, full-bodied wines, well-made dresses, defined calves. Twelve years older than Tess and nine inches shorter, she had flame red curls and the only green eyes in three generations. Her latest beau was one of the city's new bicycle cops, lured into the shop after Kitty saw his legs flashing by. Thaddeus Freudenberg. He was twenty-four, as big and cuddly as a Labrador, and only a few IQ points dumber. Tess figured he was on the bike patrol because he couldn't pass the test for a driver's license.

Thaddeus was not in evidence this morning. Tess leaned against the fountain. "I've had an interesting offer," she began, filling Kitty in on Rock's proposal. She thought her aunt would be impressed, especially given the fact Tess often had trouble coming up with the rent.

But Kitty was dubious. "It sounds like meddling for a fee. Don't the ethics bother you?"

"I can't afford ethics. Summer was slow, and I need some cash on hand."

"I suppose." She stared Tess down, a feat she could manage only because she was seated on the old fountain and Tess was slumped over it. "But you don't really like this woman. So how can you be objective? If you see something ambiguous you might draw false conclusions because you want to catch her. You might not even realize what you're doing."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you might see her kissing someone on the street, for example, and assume it's her lover. But it could be her brother, or a friend."

"I think I'd know the difference between a lover and a brother."

"I don't know, Tesser. It's been awhile since I've heard any feet but yours climbing up to the third floor." Kitty smiled and tugged the slippery silk kimono back over her left shoulder.

"Don't be smug just because you have Officer Friendly to tuck you in at night. Some people do sleep alone, you know."

"Maybe Jonathan will turn up again soon. It's been awhile, hasn't it?"

"I gave up Jonathan for Lent."

"And you'll forgive him for Yom Kippur. You always managed to get the full mileage out of your dual religions, Tesser, even when you were a little girl."

With that, Kitty swung off the counter and padded to her living quarters behind the store, leaving Tess to think about Jonathan Ross. It hadn't occurred to her to miss him until Kitty mentioned him. Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, was next month. And Jonathan had more to atone for than she did, much more.

Her thoughts scattered when Crow, one of the clerks, rapped on the front door.

"Only two hours early today," Tess said as she let him in, feeling mean. Crow, infatuated with Kitty, often showed up as early as 7 A.M. for his morning shift and stayed late into the night, trying to computerize the inventory system.

"Yeah, well, I thought I could eat my breakfast here." He held up a greasy sack of doughnuts and a bottle of orange juice. A battered guitar case was strung across his back. "I like the light here in the morning. It's very…inspiring."

Tess almost felt sorry for Crow, simply the latest in a string of workers to fall in love with Kitty. Maryland Institute of Art students seemed particularly vulnerable. But her pity was tempered by a vague grumpiness. He never looked at her that way, with his moist brown eyes and pretty mouth.

Crow hoisted himself up on the counter, as if drawn to the spot where Kitty's kimono had slithered just minutes before. Ignoring his breakfast, he took out the guitar and began playing. An original tune, Tess judged, or a particularly bad version of a well-known one.

"I'm writing a song," he told her.

"You won't be the first. Just remember, though-you're going to be limited to pretty, pity, and shitty for rhymes."

"Not necessarily." He strummed a few bars and began to sing. His voice, while thin, was charming and true. "‘The first time I saw Kitty/She made me feel like Walter Mitty/My heart did that tapocketa ditty/And I wanted to rescue her from this grim, dank city/Tapocketa. Tapocketa. Tapocketa/I'm almost a hero now.'"

"Find a rhyme for Monaghan and I'll really be impressed."

"If I did I could write a song for you, too," Crow said, grinning at her. "Tess rhymes with so many things."

"Less," she told him. "Primarily it rhymes with less."

Tess left Crow to his doughnuts and his daydreams, climbing the back stairs to her apartment. It was a steep climb, given the high ceilings on the first two floors, more like a fifth story walk-up. When Kitty renovated the building she had intended to rent the third floor to help carry her mortgage. Tess, its first and only tenant, paid much less than Kitty could have commanded on the open market.

It was small, essentially a large room divided by bookcases. The living area was big enough for only a desk, an easy chair, and a small mission table, which she used for meals. The kitchen was an alcove with a miniature refrigerator and a two-burner stove. One had to pass through it to get to the bedroom, the largest space. This, too, was plain, large enough for only a lumpy double bed, a small table, and a bureau.

But the apartment did have one outstanding feature: a terrace off the bedroom, with a ladder leading to the rooftop. On this morning Tess went straight to the roof, hoping the view would help her mind expand and clear so she could concentrate on her latest odd job.

She preferred the view to the east, the smokestacks and the neon red Domino Sugar sign, turning her back to downtown and the city's celebrated waterfront. Tess had little use for that part of Baltimore, which had been reinvented as a tourist haven. To her way of thinking it wasn't much different from the old strip bars, which let people in for free, then jacked up the prices for everything else. She had nightmares in which she was trapped in a papier-mâché head, forced to greet people. "How you doin', hon? How you doin', hon?"

Tess reviewed the addresses Rock had given her. Ava's life was neatly contained. She lived in a condominium at one end of the harbor. She worked at the other end at the white-shoe firm of O'Neal, O'Connor and O'Neill. She could walk to work in less than fifteen minutes-assuming Ava walked anywhere.

The photograph was crudely cropped into an oval shape, a man's clumsy handiwork. It had probably been in a frame at Rock's bedside, or on his desk. A picture from a spring regatta, with Ava standing next to Rock. He wore a red T-shirt and black Lycra rowing shorts. She had on a crisp, navy striped T-shirt that looked as if it cost more than Tess's best dress. Her right hand could not even span Rock's wrist, yet she seemed to have a firm grasp on him. Her hair was a dark cloud around her face, a face so perfect it was easy to understand why her parents had dared to give her a sex goddess's name. Ava lived up to it.

Tess knew all about beautiful women. She had been surrounded by them all her life-her aunt, her college roommate, Whitney, even her mother. Some were generous, allowing you to bask in their glow. Others shut you out, made you feel fat and clumsy. Ava fell into the latter group.