It was at Henry Bartlett's suggestion that they went out for dinner and invited Cheryl and Syd to join them. When Ted protested that he did not want to get involved with Cheryl, Henry cut him off sharply. "Teddy, like it or not, you are involved with Cheryl. She and Syd Melnick can be very important witnesses for you."

"I fail to see how."

"If we don't admit that you may have gone back upstairs, we've got to prove that Elizabeth Lange was confused about the exact time of that phone conversation and we've got to make the jury believe that Leila may have committed suicide."

"What about the eyewitness?"

"She saw a tree on the terrace moving. Her lively imagination decided it was you struggling with Leila. She's a nut case."

They went to the Cannery. A chattering, happy end-of-summer crowd filled the popular restaurant; but Craig had phoned ahead, and there was a window table with a sweeping view of Monterey Harbor awaiting them. Cheryl slipped in beside Ted. Her hand rested on his knee. "This is like old times," she whispered. She was wearing a lame halter and matching skin-tight pants. A buzz of excite-ment had followed her as she walked across the room.

In the months since he'd seen her, Cheryl had phoned him repeatedly but he'd never returned the calls. Now as her warm, restless fingers caressed his knee, Ted wondered if he was being a fool for not taking what was being offered to him. Cheryl would say anything he wanted that might help his defense. But at what price?

Syd, Bartlett and Craig were visibly relieved to be here instead of at the Spa. "Wait till you start eating," Syd told Henry. "You'll know what seafood is all about."

The waiter came. Bartlett ordered a Johnnie Walker Black Label. His champagne-toned linen jacket was an impeccable fit; his sport shirt in the exact champagne shade and cinnamon-colored trousers were obviously custom-made. His thick but meticulously barbered white hair contrasted handsomely with his unlined, tanned face. Ted imagined him by turn informing, wooing, scolding a jury. A grandstander. Obviously, it worked for him. But what percentage of the time? He started to order a vodka martini and changed it to a beer. This was no time to dull any of his faculties.

It was early for dinner, only seven o'clock. But he had insisted on that. Craig and Syd were having an animated conversation. Syd seemed almost cheerful. Testimony for sale, Ted thought. Make Leila sound like a maniacal drunk. It could all backfire, kids, and if it does, I'm the one who pays.

Craig was asking Syd about his agency; was sympathizing with him over the money he'd lost in Leila's play. "We took a bath too," he said. He looked over at Cheryl and smiled warmly.

"And we think you were a hell of a good sport to try to save the ship, Cheryl."

For God's sake, don't shovel it on! Ted bit his lip to keep from shouting at Craig. But everyone else was smiling broadly. He was the alien in the group, the Unidentified Flying Object. He could sense the eyes of the other diners on this table, on him. He might as well have been able to overhear the sotto voce conversations. "His trial starts next week."… "Do you think he did it?"… "With his money, he'll probably get off. They always do."

Not necessarily.

Impatiently, Ted looked out at the bay. The harbor was filled with boats-large, small, sailing vessels, yachts. Whenever she could, his mother had brought him to visit here. It was the only place where she'd been happy.

"Ted's mother's family came from Monterey," Craig was telling Henry Bartlett.

Again Ted experienced the wild irritation that Craig had begun to trigger in him. When had it started? In Hawaii? Before that? Don't read my thoughts. Don't speak for me. I'm sick of it. Leila used to ask him if he didn't get sick of having the Bulldog at his heels all the time…

The drinks came. Bartlett took over the conversation. "As you know, you are all listed as potential defense witnesses for Teddy. Obviously you can testify to the scene at Elaine's. So can about two hundred other people. But on the stand, I'd like you to help me paint for the jurors a more complete picture of Leila. You all know her public image. But you also know that she was a deeply insecure woman who had no faith in herself, who was haunted by a fear of failure."

"A Marilyn Monroe defense," Syd suggested. "With all the wild stories about Monroe 's death, everyone has pretty well conceded that she committed suicide."

"Exactly." Bartlett favored Syd with a friendly smile. "Now the question is motive. Syd, tell me about the play."

Syd shrugged. "It was perfect for her. It could have been written about her. She loved the script. The rehearsals started like a cakewalk. I used to tell her we could open in a week. And then something happened. She came into the theater smashed at nine in the morning. After that it was all downhill."

"Stage fright?"

"Lots of people get stage fright. Helen Hayes threw up before every performance. When Jimmy Stewart finished a movie, he was sure no one would ever ask him to be in another one. Leila threw up and worried. That's show biz."

"That's just what I don't want to hear on the stand," Henry said sharply. "I intend to paint the picture of a woman with a drinking problem who was experiencing severe depression."

A teenager was standing over Cheryl. "Could I please have your autograph?" He plunked a menu in front of her.

"Of course." Cheryl beamed and scrawled her signature.

"Is it true you're going to be Amanda in that new series?"

"Keep your fingers crossed. I think so." Cheryl's eyes drank in the adolescent's homage.

"You'll be great. Thank you."

"Now, if we just had a tape of this to send to Bob Koenig," Syd said drily.

"When will you know?" Craig asked.

"Maybe in the next few days."

Craig held up his glass. "To Amanda."

Cheryl ignored him and turned to Ted. "Aren't you going to drink to that?"

He raised his glass. "Of course." He meant it. The naked hope in her eyes was in an odd way touching. Leila had always overshadowed Cheryl. Why had they kept up the farce of friendship? Was it because Cheryl's endless quest to become bigger than Leila had been a challenge for Leila, a constant prod that she welcomed, that kept her on her mettle?

Cheryl must have seen something in his face, because her lips brushed his cheek. He did not pull away.

It was over coffee that Cheryl leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. The champagne she had drunk had clouded her eyes so that they now seemed to smolder with secret prom-ises. Her voice was slightly blurred as she half-whispered to Bartlett, "Suppose Leila believed that Ted wanted to dump her for another woman? What would that do to help the suicide theory?"

"I was not involved with another woman," Ted said flatly.

"Darling, this isn't True Confessions. You don't have to say a word," Cheryl chided. "Henry, answer my question."

"If we had proof that Ted was interested in someone else, and that Leila knew it, we give Leila a reason to be despondent. We damage the prosecutor's claim that Ted killed Leila because she rejected him. Are you telling me there was something going on between you and Ted before Leila died?" Bartlett asked hopefully.

"I'll answer that," Ted snapped. "No!"

"You didn't listen," Cheryl protested. "I said I may have proof that Leila thought Ted was ready to dump her for someone else."

"Cheryl, I suggest you shut up. You don't know what you're talking about," Syd told her. "Now let's get out of here. You've had too much to drink."

"You're right," Cheryl said amiably. "You're not often right, Syd, dear, but this time you are."