"Just the tiniest amount," he said.

"I'm telling you the amount," she said. "I'm showing you how to drink. Like this." She poured sherry to the rim of the small glass and placed it to her lips. She tossed her head back and drained the contents. She dabbed the corners of her mouth daintily with the knuckle of her index finger. "Now you," she said. She filled a second liqueur glass and handed it to William.

He hesitated.

"Do what I'm telling you," she said.

William did as she was telling him. As soon as the alcohol hit the back of his throat, he began to shudder… a wonderful involuntary spasm that started in his shoulders and traveled rapidly down his spine. "My stars!"

" 'My stars!' is correct," she said. She studied him slyly and her chuckle was positively lascivious. She poured them both another round, tossing her shot down like some old cowboy in a John Wayne movie. Having got the hang of it, William did likewise. A bit of color had come up in his cheeks. Henry and I were watching with mute amazement.

"Done!" Rosie banged a hand on the table and gathered herself together. She stood, placing the sherry bottle and the two glasses carefully on her tray again. "Tomorrow. Two o'clock. Is like medicine. Very strict. Now I bring you dinner. I know just what you need. Don't argue."

I could feel my heart sink. I knew dinner would consist of some incredible concoction of Hungarian spices and saturated fats, but I didn't have the nerve to flee.

William watched her depart. "That's remarkable," he said. "I believe I can actually feel my blood pressure drop."

I slept badly that night and jogged Friday morning in a halfhearted fashion. Morley's funeral was scheduled for 10:00 and I was dreading it. There were still too many questions up in the air and I felt as if I'd been responsible for most of them. Lonnie would be coming back from Santa Maria as soon as he wrapped up his court case. I still had a batch of subpoenas Morley'd never served, but it didn't make sense to try to get those out until I knew where things stood. Lonnie might not be going into court at all. I showered and then dug around in my underwear drawer, searching for a pair of panty hose that didn't look like kittens had been climbing up the legs. The drawer was a jumble of old T-shirts and mismatched socks. I was really going to have to get in there and get it organized one day. I put on my all-purpose dress, which is perfect for funerals: black with long sleeves, in some exotic blend of polyester you could bury for a year without generating a crease. I slipped my feet into a pair of black flats so I could walk without hobbling. I have friends who adore high heels, but I can't see the point. I figure if high heels were so wonderful, men would be wearing them. I decided to skip breakfast and get into the office early.

It was 7:28 and mine was the first car in the lot. With no access to daylight, the interior stairwell was intensely dark. The little flashlight on my keychain provided just enough illumination to prevent my tripping and falling flat on my face. When I reached the third floor, I let myself in by the front entrance. The place was gloomy and cold. I spent a few minutes turning lights on, creating the illusion that the workday had begun. I set up a pot of coffee and flipped the switch to On. By the time I'd unlocked my office, the scent of perking coffee was beginning to permeate the air.

I checked my answering machine and found the light blinking insistently. I pressed the button for messages and was greeted by an annoyed-sounding Kenneth Voigt. "Miss Millhone. Ken Voigt. It's… uh… midnight on Thursday. I just got a call from Rhe Parsons, who's very upset over this business with Tippy. I've put a call through to Lonnie up in Santa Maria, but the motel switchboard is closed. I'll be at the office by eight tomorrow morning and I want this straightened out. Call me the minute you get in." He left the telephone number at Voigt Motors and clicked off.

I checked my watch. It was 7:43. I tried the number he'd left, but all I got was a recording, advising in cultured tones that the dealership was closed and giving me an emergency number in case I was calling to announce that the building was going up in flames. I was still wearing my jacket and it didn't make sense to settle in at my desk. Might as well face the music. Ida Ruth was just arriving so I told her where I was going and left the place to her. I went back down to the parking lot, where I retrieved my car. I'd only met Kenneth Voigt once, but he'd struck me as the sort who'd enjoy being on the sending end of a good chewing out. I really didn't want to discuss the latest developments in the case. For one thing, I hadn't told Lonnie what was happening and I figured it was his place to deliver bad news. At least he could advise Voigt about the legal consequences.

Traffic on the freeway was still fairly light and I made it to the Cutter Road off-ramp by five minutes after eight. Voigt Motors was the authorized dealer for Mercedes-Benz, Porsche, Jaguar, Rolls-Royce, Bentley, BMW, and Aston Martin. I parked my VW in one of ten empty slots and moved toward the entrance. The building looked like a Southern plantation, a glass-and-concrete tribute to gentility and taste. A discreet sign, hand-lettered in gold, indicated that business hours were Monday-Friday 8:30am to 8pm, Saturday 9am to 6pm, and Sunday 10am to 6pm. I cupped a hand against the smoky glass, looking for signs of activity in the shadowy interior. I could see six or seven gleaming automobiles and a light at the rear. To the right, a staircase swept up and out of sight. I tapped a key against the glass, wondering if the tiny clicking sound carried far enough to be effective.

Moments later, Kenneth Voigt appeared at the top of the stairs and peered over the railing. He came down and crossed the gleaming marble floor in my direction. He wore a dark pin-striped business suit, a crisp pale blue dress shirt, and a dark blue tie. He looked like a man who'd built up one of the most prosperous high-end car dealerships in Santa Teresa County. He detoured briefly, taking time to flick on interior lights, illuminating a fleet of pristine automobiles. He unlocked the front door and held it open for me. "I take it you got my message."

"I was in early this morning. I thought we might as well talk in person."

"You'll have to hang on a minute. I was just putting a call through to New York." He crossed the showroom, moving toward a row of identical glass-fronted offices where business was conducted during working hours. I watched as he took a seat in somebody else's swivel chair. He punched in a number and leaned back, keeping an eye on me while he waited for his call to go through. Someone apparently picked up on the other end because I saw his interest quicken. He began to gesture as he talked. Even from a distance, he managed to look tense and unreasonable.

Don't blow this, I thought. Do not mouth off. The man was Lonnie's client, not mine, and I couldn't afford to antagonize him. I ambled around the showroom, hoping to stifle my natural inclination to bolt. Getting fired had taken some of the cockiness out of me. I focused on my surroundings, taking in the aura of elegance.

The air smelled wonderfully of leather and car wax. I wondered what it felt like to have enough in a checking account to make a down payment on a vehicle that cost more than two hundred thousand dollars. I pictured lots of chuckles and not a lot of haggling. If you could afford a Rolls-Royce, you had to know it would set you back plenty walking in the door. What was there to negotiate, the trade-in on your Bentley?

My gaze settled on a Corniche III, a two-door convertible with a red exterior. The top was down. The interior was upholstered in creamy white leather piped in red. I glanced back at Voigt. He was now fully engrossed in his telephone conversation so I opened the door on the driver's side of the Rolls and got in. Not bad. A copy of the car's specs was printed on parchment, bound in leather, and tucked in the glove box. It looked like the wine list in an expensive restaurant. There wasn't anything as vulgar as a price in evidence, but I did learn that the 'kerb weight' for the motorcar was 2430 kg and the 'luggage boot capacity' was 0,27 m³. I studied all the dials and switches on the instrument panel, admiring the inlaid walnut. I did some serious driving, turning the steering wheel this way and that while I made tire-squealing noises with my mouth. James Bond in drag. I was in the process of navigating a hairpin turn on a mountainous road above Monte Carlo when I looked up to find Voigt standing beside the car. I could feel the color rise in my face like heat. "This is beautiful," I murmured. I knew I only said it as a way of sucking up to him, but I couldn't help myself.