Your friend.

"Don't you see? Ted must have been having a fling with someone else. But wouldn't that make him glad to break up with Leila? And if he wants to say it was with me, that's fine. I'll back him up."

"You stupid bitch."

Cheryl straightened up and walked over to the other couch. She sat down, leaned forward and spoke precisely, as though she were addressing a not-very-bright child. "You don't seem to realize that this letter is my chance to make Ted understand that I have his best interests at heart."

Syd walked over, grabbed the letter from Cheryl's hand and shredded it. "Last night Bob Koenig phoned me to make sure there was nothing unfavorable that might come out about you. You know why, as of this minute, you have the inside track for Amanda? Because Margo Dresher's had more than her share of lousy publicity. What kind of publicity do you think you'd get if Leila's fans find out you drove her to suicide with poison-pen letters?"

"I didn't write that letter."

"The hell you didn't! How many people knew about that bracelet? I saw your eyes when Ted gave it to Leila. You were ready to stab her right then. Those rehearsals were closed. How many people knew Leila was having trouble with her lines? You knew. Why? Because I told you myself. You wrote that letter and others like it. How much time did it take you to cut and paste? I'm surprised you had the patience. How many more are there, and are they likely to show up?"

Cheryl looked alarmed. "Syd, I swear to you I did not write that letter or any others. Syd, tell me about Bob Koenig."

Now it was Syd who, enunciating slowly, repeated the conversation. When he finished, Cheryl reached out her hand. "Got a match? You know I gave up smoking."

Syd watched as the shredded letter with its bizarre, uneven scraps of print curled and disappeared in the ashtray.

Cheryl came over to him and put her arms around his neck. "I knew you were going to get that part for me, Syd. You're right about getting rid of the letter. I think I should still testify at the trial. The publicity will be wonderful. But don't you think my attitude should be shock that my very dearest friend was so distraught and depressed? Then I could explain how even those of us at the top have terrible periods of anxiety."

Her eyes opened wide; two tears ran down her cheeks. "I think Bob Koenig would like that approach, don't you?"

" Elizabeth!" Min's startled voice made her jump. "Is something wrong? Where is Sammy?"

Min and Helmut were in matching jogging outfits; Min's black hair was pulled regally into a chignon, but her makeup only partially masked the unfamiliar wrinkles around her eyes, the puffiness of her lids. The Baron seemed, as always, to be striking a pose, his legs slightly parted, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bent forward, his eyes puzzled and guileless.

Briefly, Elizabeth told them what had happened. Sammy was missing; her bed had not been slept in.

Min looked alarmed. "I came down at about six o'clock. The lights were on; the window was open; the copy machine was on. I was annoyed. I thought Sammy was getting careless."

"The copy machine was on! Then she did come back to the office last night." Elizabeth darted across the room. "Did you look to see if the letter she wanted to copy is in the machine?"

It was not there. But next to the copier Elizabeth found the plastic bag the letter had been wrapped in.

Within fifteen minutes a search party had been quietly organized. Reluctantly, Elizabeth acceded to Min's pleadings not to call the police immediately. "Sammy was very ill last year," Min reminded her. "She had a slight stroke and was disoriented. It may have happened again. You know how she hates fuss. Let us try to find her first."

"I'll give it until lunchtime," Elizabeth said flatly, "and then I'm going to report her missing. For all we know, if she did have some kind of attack, she's wandering on the beach somewhere."

"Minna gave Sammy a job out of pity," Helmut snapped. "The essence of this place is privacy, seclusion. We have deputies swarming about and half the guests will pack up and go home."

Elizabeth felt red-hot anger, but it was Min who answered. "Too much has been concealed around here," she said quietly. "We will delay calling the sheriffs office for Sammy's sake, not for ours."

Together they scooped the piled-up letters back into the bags. "This is Leila's mail," Elizabeth told them. She twisted the tops of the bags into intricate knots. "I'll take these to my bungalow later." She studied the knots and was satisfied no one could undo them without tearing the bags.

"Then you're planning to stay?" Helmut's attempt to sound pleased did not come off.

"At least until Sammy is found," Elizabeth told him. "Now let's get some help."

The search party consisted of the oldest and most trusted employees: Nelly, the maid who had let her into Dora's apartment; Jason, the chauffeur; the head gardener. They stood huddled at a respectful distance from Min's desk waiting for instructions.

It was Elizabeth who addressed them. "To protect Miss Samuels' privacy, we don't want anyone to suspect that there is a problem." Crisply she divided their responsibilities. "Nelly, check the empty bungalows. Ask the other maids if they've seen Dora. Be casual. Jason, you contact the cab companies. Find out if anyone made a pickup here between nine o'clock last night and seven this morning." She nodded to the gardener. "I want every inch of the grounds searched." She turned to Min and the Baron. "Min, you go through the house and the women's spa. Helmut, see if she's anywhere in the clinic. I'm going around the neighborhood."

She looked at the clock. "Remember, noon is the deadline for finding her."

As she headed for the gates, Elizabeth realized it had not been for Min and Helmut that she had made the concession, but because she knew that for Sammy it was already too late.

Ted flatly refused to begin working on his defense until he'd spent an hour in the gym. When Bartlett and Craig arrived at his bungalow, he had just finished breakfast and was wearing a blue sport shirt and white shorts. Looking at him, Henry Bartlett could understand why women like Cheryl threw themselves at him, why a superstar like Leila LaSalle had been head over heels in love with him. Ted had that indefinable combination of looks and brains and charm which attracted men and women alike.

Over the years Bartlett had defended the rich and the powerful. The experience had left him cynical. No man is a hero to his valet. Or to his lawyer. It gave Bartlett a certain sense of power of his own to get guilty defendants acquitted, to shape a defense on loopholes in the law. His clients were grateful to him and paid his huge fees with alacrity.

Ted Winters was one of a kind. He treated Bartlett with contempt. He was the devil's advocate of his own defense strategy. He did not pick up the hints Bartlett threw to him, the hints which ethically Bartlett could not bluntly state. Now he said, "You start planning my defense, Henry. I'm going to the gym for an hour. And then I might just take a swim. And possibly jog again. By the time I get back, I'd like to see exactly what your line of defense is and see if I can live with it. I assume you understand that I have no intention of saying, Yes, perhaps, maybe I did stumble back upstairs?"

"Teddy, I…"

Ted stood up. He pushed the breakfast tray aside. His posture was menacing as he stared at the older man. "Let me explain something. Teddy is the name of a two-year-old boy. I'll describe him for you. He was what my grandmother used to call a towhead… very, very blond. He was a tough little guy who walked at nine months and spoke sentences at fifteen months. He was my son. His mother was a very sweet young woman who unfortunately could not get used to the idea she had married a very rich man. She refused to hire a housekeeper. She did her own marketing. She refused to have a chauffeur. She wouldn't hear of driving an expensive automobile. Kathy lived in fear that folks from Iowa City would think she was getting uppity. One rainy night she was driving back from grocery shopping and-we think-a goddamn can of tomato soup rolled out of the bag and under her foot. And so she couldn't stop at the stop sign, and a trailer truck plowed into that goddamn piece of tin she called a car. And she and that little boy, Teddy, died. That was eight years ago. Now have you got it straight that when you call me Teddy, I see a little blond kid who walked early and talked early and would be ten years old next month?"