Eleanor had just set down her empty cup and yawned when the phone interrupted the desultory conversation in Kate’s living room. “It’s for you, Eleanor,” Kate said and dangled the phone in her direction. “A customer?”

Eleanor reached lazily for the receiver, totally unprepared to hear John’s voice. “Look,” he said urgently. “I’m tied up here tonight with stuff that has to be followed up on—but could I see you tomorrow night? I really will be off for the weekend by then. Perhaps we could—”

“Oh no!” said Eleanor, before he could explain what it was that they could have done. “I’m going out tomorrow night.” At this, Kate tactfully picked up the tea things and hustled herself and her niece out of the room. “One of Susan’s friends—one of those theatrical types she inherited—wants me to go to a party and I said I would. At the time,” she said pointedly, “ I hadn’t anything better to do.”

“I see,” said John. “An old friend, is he?”

“Not an old friend of mine certainly—probably an old friend of hers. Anyway, from Grant’s description of the party, it sounded deadly, so if you had something particularly interesting in mind, I might be able to wriggle out of it.”

“Grant?” That name was on his current checklist.

“Yes. Grant Keswick. An actor. You’ve probably seen him in TV commercials. I think he’s the one with the beer bottle in one hand and a blonde in the other as he shoots the rapids above Niagara Falls, or something like that. All done in the studio, of course. Anyway, he’s an egotistical bore—in fact, a lecherous, egotistical bore, so I’d just as soon get out of it, come to think of it.”

“No, don’t do that. I’m terribly interested in Mr. Keswick. It seems he’s an old friend of your weight-lifting associate. I’d certainly like to know more about him. Why don’t you go to that party and listen and be sweet, and remember everything he says, especially about Jane Conway? Or anything anyone else says about her.”

“You mean I’m supposed to be an informant?” she asked. “You going to pay me fabulous amounts of money to betray my friends and acquaintances?”

“That’s just on television. We’re much too cheap to pay people when we don’t have to. I’ll call you on Sunday and see what you found out.”

“Wait,” she said. “Did you know where Jane Conway spent Tuesday night? Because I just heard.”

“So did I,” he said. “At a party.”

“That’s not what I heard. According to Kate’s niece, she spent Tuesday evening (or part of it, anyway) at the After Hours, which is, I gather, a rather steamy sort of joint downtown.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“According to Amanda, one of the girls in her class saw her there. The kid was downtown with a parent or something—not actually in the bar. And she asked Conway about it in class. Anyway, Jane Conway got very upset and annoyed, which the kids took to mean that she actually was there. And that’s all I know. See you later.”

“Thanks,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s a very interesting place for her to spend her evenings in. I’ll call you.”

Chapter 7

Grant Keswick and Eleanor stepped out of the elevator into the hotel corridor. They had no trouble figuring out which of the function rooms they were heading for—waves of sound punctuated by shrieks of laughter led them directly to it. Grant plunged into the room and headed directly for the bar, dragging Eleanor after him. She stumbled over feet and caught her high, narrow heels in the broadloom, until finally they reached the drinks table relatively unscathed. In her ridiculous shoes, she towered over Grant, but he had insisted that she wear them. “When I take out a tall girl, I want the whole world to see that she’s tall—the effect is marvellous. If I want to look tall myself, I’ll kick you and you can sit down somewhere while I find myself a shrimp to stand beside.” It had been at this point that she had begun to doubt the wisdom of accepting his invitation. If John Sanders hadn’t been so excited about her going to this party she wouldn’t be here.

But here she was, with a vodka and tonic in her hand—this was a government affair, and the wine looked suspiciously domestic—her feet hurting, trying to be sparkling to a lot of people who were all talking about things she knew nothing about. And only because her cousin knew everyone in Toronto theatrical circles and had introduced her to Grant Keswick and he had decided that he wanted a tall redhead for tonight. For reasons that would become clear later, no doubt. And she was supposed to look excited about a miniseries that she had not watched and be overwhelmed by the knowledge that a bigwig from a U.S. network was here and seriously considering buying the series to show in the fall. From the general euphoria exuding from everyone, it was obvious that most of those present saw themselves already on the magic carpet, being rapidly transported into the big money and the even bigger prestige associated with acting, designing, directing, or even fetching coffee for a big American network.

Eleanor found herself trapped between a large chair and a medium-sized girl, who was mouthing something at her. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “It’s so noisy in here I can’t hear what anyone is saying.”

The girl whispered a bit louder. “I see you came in with Grant Keswick. Did he bring you?” Eleanor decided that this was a trick question. She nodded brightly and kept her mouth shut. “I’ve been going out with him ever since we started the series, you know,” she said as she stared through Eleanor. “I think he’s a bit old to be playing the juvenile lead, don’t you? But he’s trying to look as young as possible. That must be why he invited an older woman tonight. For the contrast. He always thinks of things like that.”

It seemed to be an unanswerable comment. Eleanor remembered her mission and attempted to edge away from this sweet creature, looking wildly about for her scheming escort. She saw him finally in a quiet corner talking to a man dressed soberly in gray. Not an actor or director, then. Probably from the Canada Council, or a politician or civil servant. There were enough of those around. She squeezed in between the chair and the girl as expeditiously as possible without knocking either one down and without pausing to observe the effect of her sudden departure on Grant’s erstwhile love.

She was heading for an enormous chair in the vicinity of the two men, close enough to appear to be with them, yet not so close that she would intrude on their conversation. She should be able to hear Grant’s clear actor’s voice from there. Three more closely knit groups of people and she should make it. Suddenly a bony hand grasped her around the upper arm, and a too-familiar voice squawked in her ear: “Eleanor! How wonderful to see you! Is Susan here with you?” This was why Susan had ducked the party. She knew that her old boyfriend would be here—as weedy and unpleasant as ever, and still as impossible to get rid of—and had no desire to run into him again.

“Stephen, how nice to see you.” She kept her voice low and unenthused. “How’s art history? Susan couldn’t come to this. She’s studying for exams.” As he droned on at her, she tried to peer past his long, skinny frame to see what had happened to her quarry. Fortunately, Stephen rarely listened to anyone, and an occasional grunt was always sufficient to satisfy his demands for conversational response. Two people shifted position, and she could see Grant again, still deep in conversation. She turned politely to Stephen for a moment. When she looked back, Grant and the man in gray were gone. Damn! Getting rid of this persistent idiot took real skill. He appeared to be going on about theater being the only true plastic art, citing a series of contradictory reasons that she hadn’t time to make sense of.