"Instead of fried? Does she cook it first, or is it raw?"

Ruby Bee held up her hand. "We didn't swap recipes, Mrs. Pillsbury Doughgirl, and that's not important, anyway. What matters is why those men keep going to the third floor and pretending they're regular workmen. I'd be willing to say there's something going on up there that doesn't involve Krazy KoKo-Nut or lead pipes."

"Something illegal," Estelle said, nodding. "Something so awful that they shot Jerome Appleton because of it and most likely the manager at the Xanadu. Maybe we ought to warn Rick about them. He could tell the lieutenant, and then the next time they come prancing in with their toolboxes, the police could arrest 'em on the spot."

"I don't know about that. After all, they've been remodeling this hotel for a time, and you'd think Rick would know if they weren't who they said. Remember that man at the table saw? He was sure acting like he knew what he was doing, and doing it real loud, to boot. It's not all of them, but just some, like our ignorant plumber." She glanced at the bedside alarm clock she'd had the foresight to bring, since the Chadwick Hotel had failed to supply one. "It's well past quittin' time, so they've probably cleared out by now. What do you say we have a look around and see if we can figure out what's going on besides remodeling? Then that rude lieutenant can arrest the murderers and we can have the contest."

"And the ten thousand dollars?" Estelle said, wiggling her welldrawn eyebrows.

Ruby Bee allowed herself a smug smile. "And the ten thousand dollars. I got this contest tied up tighter than bark on a tree-if we ever get to fix our recipes."

They made sure they had the room key, went out into the empty hallway, and headed for the elevator, doing all this real quietly so's not to attract the attention of anyone in the rooms (Arly, for example). Once they were safely in the elevator, however, Estelle rolled her eyes and said, "These Yankees are the strangest folks I've ever met. They put the Buchanon clan to shame. Can you imagine eating raw chicken liver?"

The topic was more than adequate to entertain them as they rode toward the third floor.

The knock on Durmond's door was more than mildly inopportune. I grabbed my clothes and hightailed it to my room, then leaned against the adjoining door while I caught my breath and reminded myself I was well past the age of consent-and had done more than my share of any consenting. Hell, I'd initiated it. There was no reason to feel like a kid caught necking on the porch. We were both single, sober, and attracted, and we'd been heading in this direction since we first laid eyes on each other. For all I could tell, I'd been heading in this direction since the stewardess had offered me a complimentary beverage of my choice and a foil packet with six lightly salted peanuts. As far as directions go, it wasn't a bad one.

I regarded my flushed face in the mirror while I dressed and repaired my hair. There was no scarlet message written on my forehead, but it was obvious I hadn't been flipping through a magazine during the last half hour, not with a complacent smile like mine. I peered more closely at my eyes, which were simmering with the frustration born of being interrupted during a more leisurely expedition. It then occurred to me that I'd fled so quickly that I didn't know the identity of the intruder in the next room. I gave up analyzing my recent behavior-not repenting, mind you, analyzing-and went to the adjoining door to knock. My hand froze as I heard Lieutenant Henbit's dulcet voice.

"Yeah, we picked her up at Grand Central," he said. "She had a hundred thousand in her bag, but refused to explain it or anything else. One little phone call, and this sleazy lawyer comes barging in, bitching about a lack of evidence, and advising her not to say a word."

"A hundred thousand," Durmond said with a whistle.

"This particular sleazy lawyer has been on retainer for certain unsavory families for the last decade. Why would a nice suburban housewife call him?"

"Because her husband worked for them," I said as I came into the room. Henbit made a burbulous noise, but I ignored it. "I heard him and Rick in the office the day I arrived. Jerome Appleton was their accountant. That explains why Brenda was invited to be a contestant, and why she knew the name of a sleazy lawyer." I resisted the temptation to make a more generic remark about the profession and waited for Henbit and Durmond to congratulate me on the significance of my comments.

"We know that," Henbit said. "What I was about to point out when you barged through the door"-he paused to smirk at the rumpled sheets from which we could all see steam rising-"or back through the door, was that we now know that Mrs. Appleton was aware of her husband's association with the Gabardi organization. Our theory is that he decided to walk out on her, packed his bags, and tried to split. She didn't go for it, so she followed him through the kitchen to the alley, where she shot him."

"Ruby Bee saw the body in the kitchen," I protested.

"So she says. The lab boys are testing the floor and walls for blood, and we'll have the results before too long. Thing is, she could have shot him there just as easily and dragged him out to the dumpster, set his luggage where it could be stolen by the first bum that staggered by, and then, being a finicky homemaker, felt obliged to clean up the mess she'd made. I'm aware Pilverman here is convinced there were drugs involved, but we haven't turned up so much as a gram and I don't have the manpower to crawl over every inch of this place in search of one."

"Where'd she get a hundred thousand dollars?" I asked.

"From his suitcase. Maybe he's the sort who prefers to pay cash instead of putting it on plastic."

Durmond gave me a warning look. "I talked to Sonny earlier about this. Let me share our thoughts with you. Appleton went to the kitchen to avail himself of a package or two of Colombia's finest on his way south. Rick and Cambria were there, getting ready to replace the contents of the cartons with what was supposed to be in them, and they were unhappy about Appleton's plans. One or the other shot him, and they took away the cartons to complete the substitution. Ruby Bee saw the body before they'd had time to move it to the dumpster, clean up the blood, and replace the cartons."

It wasn't quite what he and I had come up with, but I merely frowned and said, "The cocaine's liable to be on the third floor, Lieutenant Henbit."

"Ms. Hanks," he said, his frown a great deal less winsome than mine and his drawl more pronounced, "we have searched the third floor. There is a great deal of evidence that the remodeling continues. We're talking tools and lumber and sawdust and sheetrock and all those subtle hints even we could hardly miss. If there ever was cocaine, it's long gone from this hotel. I don't give a shit what you, Agent Pilverman, and his undercover cohort think, and to be blunt, the last thing I need is a one-bullet cop and a pair of feds messing up my investigation."

I was going to tell him I had three bullets, but I sensed it was not the moment to quibble about such details. Nor did I offer the information that he had a couple of amateurs on the prowl, partly because I had no idea what they were up to and partly because I was pissed at his attitude. He'd find out in good time. "What are you doing with Rick and Cambria?" I asked meekly (I do great meek).

Henbit bristled like a sow. "I can't do anything. Despite Agent Pilverman's invitation to avail ourselves of his department's thick files on the suspects, we can't do a goddamn thing without proof. So what if they shot Appleton and moved the body? Do you know how long we could detain them on the evidence we've got? They wouldn't have time to finish a cup of coffee before the lawyer was there to escort them out the door, and I'd be explaining to my superior why I'd booked them in the first place. I can hear him mentioning the night shift in Flatbush."