"Did we get the vineyard?" she asked*

"We did."

"I'm so happy for you, Sandy," she said. "I'll get the wine right over to Mr. Warren."

Sandy thanked her, then hung up and called Mike Bernini and invited him to lunch in the Ritz-Carlton's restaurant. He made the table reservation, then showered, shaved, and got dressed. He had some shopping to do before lunch. He left the hotel and, visiting several inexpensive shops, bought pretty much the same items he had thrown away not long before-a reversible raincoat, a tweed hat, and thin leather driving gloves. He left them in his hotel room and was in the restaurant in time to meet Mike Bernini.

He had a convivial lunch with Bernini, and they split a bottle of good champagne. Sandy tried to stop glancing at his watch, but he was unable to, nor was he able to hide his nervousness.

"Sandy," Bernini said, "are you feeling well? Is it too hot in here for you?" Sandy dabbed at his forehead with his napkin. "I think I may be getting some sort of bug," he said. "Maybe I'll take a little nap after lunch." 't

"Good idea; take care of yourself," Bernini said.

At two o'clock Sandy shook Bernini's hand and said his good-byes. He went to his room, retrieved his clothing purchases and got the pistol from the safe in the closet.

At 2:45 Sandy arrived at the office building, wearing the raincoat, plaid side out, the cap and sunglasses. The pistol banged against his thigh as he walked down the ramp into the garage. He avoided the elevators and continued down one level, following the route of the day before.

He stooped to pass under the barrier and, as he walked into the law firm's private parking area, he saw the red Mercedes 500SL with its distinctive license plate, DEALER. He went straight to the telephone booth and sat down, leaving the door ajar. He found he was sweating profusely.

He sat sideways in the booth, watching the lights above the elevator doors. He was too far away to read the numbers, so he walked quickly to the elevators and saw where the forty-first number was, then he returned to the booth and sat, waiting.

It will all be over soon, he kept telling himself, trying not to think about what he was about to do. He unwrapped the pistol and put it back into his raincoat pocket, making sure he could extract it quickly when needed.

I am not this kind of man, he kept telling himself, then he would think about his son and his business and his new vineyard, all of which he might lose if he didn't do this. His mind raced from one thing to another; he saw Cara's beautiful face, felt her auburn head on his shoulder, kissed her lips. Then he was firing the silenced pistol through the glass of the Mercedes, and blood was everywhere. He was covered in blood and glass, and there was blonde hair all over the front seat of the car.

He jerked back to reality. He saw the elevator door close and watched as the lights above it illuminated, one by one. He saw the forty-first light go on and stay on for a few seconds, then the order of the lights reversed. The car was coming down.

He hoped it would stop for other passengers, that other people would be present, preventing him from doing this awful thing, but the car ran smoothly, and nothing stopped it before its garage destination. He held his breath as the doors opened; maybe it would be somebody else. But a blonde woman in a red dress stepped from the car and walked purposefully toward the law firm's private parking area. She was attractive, he thought, though she wore more makeup than he liked on a woman. She walked toward the red Mercedes, stopped behind it, and opened the trunk.

Sandy opened the door of the telephone booth as quietly as he could and stepped out, pulling the pistol from his raincoat pocket and holding it slightly behind him, so that if she turned she would not see it. He walked quietly to within a few steps of her. This time there must be no mistake about who she was. His throat was dry and he swallowed hard. "Excuse me, ma'am," he said, nearly choking.

She spun around, startled. "Yes?" she said. Then she looked at him, seeming confused. "Sandy?" she asked.

He knew her? Oh, God, he thought. Can I do this? He thumbed back the hammer on the pistol.

"Sandy?" she repeated. "What on earth are you doing here?"

He narrowed his eyes. She was familiar, but he couldn't place her. New York, he thought, but where? Some cocktail party? Was she a friend of Joan's?

"Sandy, say something," she said. "What's wrong? You're frightening me."

The voice conflicted with the face, but suddenly, he knew.

"Cara?" he asked, struggling to maintain his composure. Then he looked down and saw a small pistol in her hand, and it was pointed at his chest.

They sat in the Mercedes convertible, both breathing hard. Cara's gun was in her lap; Sandy had surreptitiously returned the silenced pistol to his raincoat pocket.

"Sandy what are you doing here?" she demanded.

"I'm buying a vineyard; I was in a lawyer's office upstairs signing a purchase agreement," he half-lied. "Your turn."

"I really don't want you involved in this," she said, shaking her head.

"You told me you were going to Charleston," he said. "Why are you here, and what is it you don't want me involved in?"

"Charleston was just a cover," she replied.

"A cover for what?"

"A cover to keep anyone from knowing that I was coming to San Francisco. Only Thea, my partner, knew."

"I don't understand," he said.

"I don't want you involved," she repeated.

"I got involved last weekend at Edgartown; I remain involved. Please tell me what's going on; maybe I can help."

She was silent for a moment, then sighed and spoke. "I've lied to you," she said."

"I'm sure you must have had a good reason," he replied. "Now tell me the truth."

"It's a long story."

"I've got all the time in the world."

Her shoulders sagged. "All right. My name isn't Cara Mason, it's Helena Martindale. Cara is a family nickname, and Mason is my mother's maiden name."

"Go on."

"I haven't been living in New York for a year; I came to New York on the plane with you; I was in trouble, and Thea offered to hide me."

"Tell me about the trouble."

"I'm… I was married to an Englishman named Peter Martindale. We lived here, in San Francisco, where he runs an art gallery. We were married for a little over two years, and I came to learn that he was… a little strange. I told him I wanted a divorce, and he didn't take it well."

"He didn't want the divorce?"

"No. Not because he was in love with me-he never was, I think. The money for the gallery came out of my inheritance, and he wanted more."

"And you wouldn't give it to him?"

"No. He'd used up nearly half my funds setting up the gallery. I had a lien on the pictures he'd bought, but as he sold them, he never repaid the money I'd loaned him. When I told him I planned to divorce him, he tried to make it up between us. I stayed with him for a while, then I moved in with a friend and filed for divorce. This was about seven months ago."

"Were you having an affair?" Sandy asked.

"No, no. He's a painter named Saul Winner; Saul is in his sixties and has a nineteen-year-old boy for a lover. I moved into his house temporarily, but I continued to go to the gallery, to keep an eye on my investment. Peter got stranger and stranger, and one night a couple of weeks ago, he asked me to meet a client from New York at the gallery, late, while he was in Los Angeles. I wanted to use the opportunity to be in the gallery while he was away so that I could go over the books with our bookkeeper, Sally, to see just how much he'd taken in since he started the gallery. It was a lot, I think, but before I could get the whole picture, I got a call from Saul, who was having a big spat with his boyfriend. I had to meet him in a bar and listen to him cry in his beer for over an hour, and when I came back to the gallery, the street was full of police cars and an ambulance. Sally had been murdered. I thought Peter might have had something to do with it-that maybe I was the intended victim. I ran. I drove to Saul's house, got my clothes, then checked into the Ritz-Carlton under the name of Cara Mason. I called Thea, and she said, 'Come to New York; be my partner.' It was a lifeline, and I grabbed it. You were in the car from the hotel and on my plane." She turned and looked at him. "I was about to grab at you, too, but I felt I had to settle things with Peter first."