"And you've stayed in close touch with Lily and Tamara since then?"

"Yes. They've both visited me in Columbus. I talk on the phone with Lily every couple of weeks. Tamara about once a month."

"So you know Mrs. Hunt's husband. What's your impression of him?"

Natalie hesitated. She thought Warren Hunt was a pompous bag of hot air, but her opinion was largely a matter of instinct. "I attended their wedding and I've been around him maybe five or six times since then. I wouldn't say I know him." She ran a hand over the dog's head. "Is Warren under suspicion, Sheriff Meredith?"

"Nick," he said absently. "And it was just an idle question."

Natalie doubted this. He was making friendly conversation-even telling her to call him Nick-because he wanted to put her off guard. But how could he possibly suspect Warren? He wasn't even here. Still, hadn't she heard on police shows that the spouse was always the prime suspect?

"Turn left here," Natalie directed. "It's the stone house up ahead."

"Nice place-. I've admired it ever since I moved here."

"Thank you. My father designed it."

"Architecture a hobby of his?"

"Yes."

"That his Jeep Wagoneer in the driveway?"

"Yes."

"Guess he finished with that critical patient sooner than you expected," he said dryly.

Natalie didn't answer. Even if Andrew had been home earlier, she hadn't wanted to call him from Tamara's. She would have had to answer a dozen questions, then wait for him to arrive when she wanted desperately to get away from the scene of Tamara's murder.

Meredith opened the back door for her. She got out and coaxed the dog to follow. "I may need to talk to you later," he said.

"Fine. Phone number is listed. Thank you for bringing me home."

As she climbed the steps to the front porch, her father swung open the door. "Before you left I specifically asked you not to get in trouble and here you are two hours later delivered home by the sheriff himself." Her father's voice always boomed when he was tense. "Was there a wreck? Are you hurt? You look awful."

"Dad, lower your voice and let the dog and me come in because if I don't sit down and have a cup of coffee-"

"You're going to pass out. There's not an ounce of color in your face." Andrew put his big hand on her arm and drew her inside the coolness of the entrance hall. The dog lingered uncertainly on the porch. "You, too. I didn't mean to scare you. You both look like you need some tender loving care."

While her father poured water and laid out leftover bacon from breakfast for the dog, Natalie sat down at the kitchen table and stared out at the lake. Sunlight flashed over its glassy surface. In one direction she could see no shore- only water. It looked so calm, so soothing.

Andrew set a mug of coffee in front of her. "Take a drink of that and tell me what's going on."

Natalie sipped, then drew a deep breath. "Dad, Tamara is dead."

"Dead! Then there was a wreck!" Andrew burst out. "Lily drives too fast. Always did. Are you hurt?"

"There wasn't a wreck." Natalie raised anguished eyes to her father. "Tamara was murdered."

" Mur -wha-murdered?" Andrew's face registered profound shock. "Natalie, what are you talking about? How? When? Murdered!"

The dog quit eating and looked at him. "Dad, please stop blustering," Natalie said. "Lily hadn't been able to reach Tam by phone so we went to her house. The windows were open and the draperies damp from the storm last night. The doors were locked. We walked down Hyacinth Lane. Tamara was lying on the road beneath a tree limb. It looked like the falling limb had killed her, but when the police cut it away, they saw that Tam's throat had been-" She drew a deep breath. "Slashed."

"Dear God," Andrew breathed, sitting down heavily. "Who?"

"They have no idea. Mr. Peyton came and took Lily home before the police discovered that her throat had been cut, so they don't even know yet that she was murdered. Neither does Warren. He's at a convention in Cleveland." She shook her head. "Dad, the dog led me to her body. It was horrible. The vultures had been at her eyes."

Andrew reached out and covered her hand with his surprisingly slender one, the hand of a gifted surgeon. "Go ahead and cry, honey."

"I can't. The tears won't come."

"They will in time." He patted her back in a clumsy attempt at comfort. "How's Lily?"

"Alternately sobbing and dry-eyed. Shaking. A wreck."

"Did she see her sister?"

"No, I wouldn't let her."

"Good. That would be a sight she'd take to her grave."

Natalie sighed. "It will be a sight I'll take to mine."

Charlotte Bishop realized she'd been staring at the same page of her Danielle Steel novel for ten minutes. She started over. Two sentences later her mind drifted again. Normally she devoured the novels, losing herself in the stories. She pictured herself as every impossibly beautiful, virtuous, and brave heroine. But not today.

She tossed down the book and looked around her bedroom. Large. Sumptuous. Adolescent. It hadn't been redecorated since she was fifteen when her favorite color was pink. Blush pink, shell pink, antique pink, strawberry pink. All shades surrounded her in nauseating abundance. And the doll collection! All those rosy-cheeked little creatures staring at her with big, blank eyes were driving her crazy. Abruptly she picked up a delicate crocheted afghan, also done in the ubiquitous shades of pink, and tossed it over the offending dolls. That was better. Slightly.

When Charlotte had returned home six months ago after her very public and humiliating divorce, she'd been too stunned and embarrassed to care what the room looked like. She'd only wanted to hide away in this small town in her old bedroom and lick her wounded ego. But time was doing its work. Her self-confidence was returning. So was her habitual boredom and restlessness. She'd like to do something about this room. After all, she would be staying here until she could marry Warren Hunt, which wouldn't be for a few months.

Warren. A couple of years ago she wouldn't have considered him husband material. Then she had been married to

Paul Fiori, a television star. When they had wed five years earlier, her father was furious. She was the only daughter of Max Bishop, owner of Bishop Corporation, one of the country's largest manufacturers of marine electronics such as sonar and radar. Max had raged at the thought of his daughter the heiress marrying a pretty-boy actor who'd had only bit parts and would never amount to anything. The marriage was unacceptable! Unthinkable! But Charlotte had married Paul anyway. Charlotte always did what she wanted. Charlotte always got what she wanted. And she'd wanted Paul.

She had been happy at first, although she was their sole support. The parts just weren't coming in and Paul was frustrated. Charlotte didn't care. This way Paul needed her and she liked being in control. Then he had won the lead in the police drama Street Life. The show debuted at number five, and in three months shot to number one in the ratings. Paul was a star and landed a feature movie for his summer hiatus from the show. Charlotte had reveled in the publicity of being Paul Fiori's wife. She hadn't even minded the paparazzi. Not until the second year of the show when they began covering Paul's affair with his costar Larissa Lyle. In public Charlotte acted calm and charmingly amused by the "ridiculous" rumor of an affair. At home she screamed, cried, threatened, and reminded Paul of every wonderful thing she'd done for him before Street Life. Then Larissa became pregnant and Paul walked away from Charlotte without a backward glance.