His overall impression was of a pleasant home with intelligent people. As soon as they were seated, he got to the point of his visit. “Four years ago, you gave statements to the police about Grace Carrington’s demeanor at the dinner you shared with her the night of her death.”

Jeffrey Hammond looked at his wife. “Nancy, I thought that Grace seemed perfectly sober when we got there. You didn’t agree.”

“She was restless, even agitated,” Nancy Hammond said. “Grace was seven-and-a-half-months pregnant, and had had some false labor pains. She was making an effort to stay off the booze. She was torn. Most of her friends were in the city and were in and out of the apartment all the time. And Grace loved to party. But the doctor had told her to get plenty of rest and I think she felt safer at the mansion than in New York. Of course, then she was bored out here.”

“Obviously you knew her very well,” Greco commented.

“She was married to Peter for eight years. All that time we were members of the same gym in Englewood. Whenever she stayed at the mansion, she exercised at the gym. We got friendly.”

“Did she confide in you?”

“ ‘Confide’ is too strong a word. Just one time she let her guard slip and called Peter a rich genius and a stick-in-the-mud.”

“Then you don’t think she was depressed?”

“Grace was worried about her drinking. She knew she had a problem. She wanted this baby desperately, and she was always aware that she’d previously had three miscarriages. My guess is that she’d already had a drink by the time we got there, then, one way or another, was sneaking others.”

For a number of reasons, she wanted her baby to live, Greco thought. Not the least of which, perhaps, was that the baby was her ticket to a lifetime income of twenty million dollars a year. He turned to Jeffrey Hammond. “What do you think, Mr. Hammond?”

Jeffrey Hammond looked thoughtful. “I keep going over that evening in my mind,” he said. “I agree that Grace seemed restless when we got there, and then, sadly, in the course of the evening began to slur her words and became unsteady on her feet.”

“Did anyone attempt to stop her from imbibing?”

“By the time I noticed, it was too late. She went to the bar and openly poured straight vodka into her glass. Before dinner, she was claiming to be drinking only club soda with a twist of lime.”

“That was for our benefit,” Nancy Hammond said dryly. “Like most problem drinkers, she must have had a bottle stashed somewhere. Maybe in the powder room.”

“Did she expect her husband to be home in time for the dinner?” Greco asked.

“Remember, this dinner wasn’t a planned event,” Jeffrey Hammond said. “Grace only called Nancy the day before to see if we were free. Early in the evening she told us that Richard Walker’s birthday was coming up, so we’d call it a birthday celebration for him. There wasn’t a place at the table set for Peter.”

“Did Grace refer to an article she had read in People magazine about the actress Marian Howley?” Greco asked.

“Yes, she did,” Nancy Hammond replied promptly. “In fact, she had it open to that page when we arrived, and she left it open. She commented on what a marvelous actress Marian Howley was, and said that she was going to get tickets to her new play, that she had met Howley at some benefits, and that she had marvelous taste. After dinner, when we were having coffee, she rambled on again about Howley, and repeated herself the way drunks do, going on about what great taste the actress had. Then Grace tore that page out of the magazine and stuck it in the pocket of her jacket, and dropped the magazine on the floor.”

“I didn’t see her do that,” Jeffrey Hammond said.

“By then the rest of you were ignoring her. That was just seconds before Peter walked in, and all hell broke loose. We left a few minutes later.”

Greco realized he was disappointed. He had come hoping to glean something further, to learn if there was some significance in the crumbled page in Grace Carrington’s pocket. He stood up to leave. “I won’t take up any more of your time,” he told them. “You have been very kind.”

“Mr. Greco,” Nancy Hammond said, “these past four years, I didn’t believe for one minute that Grace’s death was anything but an accident, but after seeing that tape of Peter Carrington slugging the cop in front of the Althorp home, I’ve changed my mind. The man is a psycho, and I can just picture him picking up Grace when she’d passed out on the sofa, and carrying her out to the pool and dropping her in. I wish I could tell you something that would pin her death on him.”

“I do, too,” Jeffrey Hammond agreed firmly. “It’s just too bad that New Jersey is almost certainly going to eliminate the death penalty.”

Greco was about to agree when he saw something that jolted him. It was a look of pure anguish in Hammond’s eyes. With the instinct that seldom failed him, Greco calculated that he had stumbled upon the identity of the man who had been Grace Carrington’s lover.

After the arraignment, the prosecutor allowed me to go back to the holding cell where Peter was being kept before he was transported back to the jail.

He was still handcuffed and shackled, and was standing in the middle of the cell. His head was down, his eyes were closed, and as I studied him, my heart was breaking. His whole body seemed so gaunt that he appeared to have lost twenty pounds overnight. His hair was untidy and his pallor was ghastly white against the stubble of beard on his face.

The cell had a grimy toilet in the corner and an unpleasant odor lingered in the closed area where the cell was located.

Peter must have sensed my presence because he lifted his head and opened his eyes. His voice composed, but his eyes pleading for understanding, he said, “Kay, I wasn’t trying to escape last night. I was dreaming that I had to find something, and then I thought someone was attacking me. Kay, I did punch that cop last night. I hurt him. Maybe I am…”

I interrupted him. “I know you weren’t trying to escape, Peter. We’ll make them understand that.”

Peter had taken a step back as if he was afraid I would reject him. But then he came forward to the bars, and raised his hands to entwine his fingers with mine. I noticed that the electronic bracelet was gone. It had served its purpose, I thought bitterly, alerting the police that Peter had left the grounds. Money well spent by the State of New Jersey.

“Kay, I want you to divorce me and get on with your life.”

That was when I broke down completely, sobbing uncontrollably, angry at myself that I was only making it worse for him. “Oh, Peter, oh Peter, don’t say that, don’t even think that.”

He shushed me. “Kay, they’ll be here for me in a minute. Listen to me. I don’t want you alone in the house. Get your grandmother to stay with you.”

I shook my head. “No!”

That was when a sheriff’s officer came in. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Carrington, you’ll have to leave,” he told me.

Still trying to stifle my sobs, I said to Peter, “I’ll find out when I can visit you. I’ll…”

“Kay, you must take care of this immediately,” Peter said. “I want you to tell Vince to hire a security firm today. I want a twenty-four-hour guard around the house. You are not to be alone there without it.”

It was the statement of a protective husband. Peter was afraid for me.

I looked at him closely. The officer put his hand under my elbow to ease me out of the detention area. I didn’t budge. I had something I had to say, and it was perfectly okay for the guard to hear me. “Peter, I’m going to throw one hell of a homecoming party for you when this nightmare is over.”

I was rewarded by a sad smile. Then Peter said, “Oh, Kay, would to God I could believe that would happen.”