Suddenly a deep voice cut through his monologue. “Eleanor, my love,” said Grant. “Have I been neglecting you so long that you’re picking up new men?” He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her closer to him. “Come on, doll, let me parade you around and impress people. Sorry, Stephen, old chap, but she’s mine tonight. Have you met Paul Wilcox? He’s probably your provincial MP—except that I can never remember exactly which group of people is supposed to vote him in.” Before either she or Stephen had a chance to react to this, Grant swept Eleanor into the center of the fray with one powerful arm around her waist. She wondered how much chance she would stand if it came to her strength against someone like Grant Keswick and shivered slightly as she tried, unsuccessfully, to disengage herself from his grip.

“Interesting man, Wilcox,” said Grant casually. “Did you hear what he had to say about the provincial Art Council’s new policy on the classification of commercial theater?”

“No, sorry, I didn’t,” said Eleanor. “I was caught by an intense little creature who feels she has some claim on you and was trying to put me in my place, and then, of course, by the inimitable Stephen. I always seem to miss the interesting conversations. That’s why I’m never able to convince anyone that I’m an insider. I think I’ll write a novel called Life on the Fringes.” Good God, she thought, I’m beginning to chatter brightly.

“It will sell a million copies, my dear, because everyone will think it’s an exposé of the fashion industry.” He maintained his hold on her wrist and gripped her even more tightly around the waist. “Let’s head for another drink, and then I want you to look decorative for that man over there. See him? The one who looks like an accountant? He’s the guy from the network, and he loves tall, intelligent women. And if you’re good, I’ll take you away after this and buy you a smashing dinner with decent wine for being such a sweetheart.” Eleanor laughed, and allowed herself to be swept along through the crowd.

John Sanders was already at his desk, making rapid notes from a pile of papers in front of him, when Ed Dubinsky walked into their crowded and chaotic corner of the building on Monday morning. “You’re late,” Sanders said.

“The hell I am,” said Dubinsky. “I’m never late. If I got here late, it would mean Sally was late getting to work, and she’s never been late for anything in her life. You’re early. You sick or something?”

Sanders glared at him. “Merely trying to get a grip on things around here.” He pushed a couple of quarters across the desk. “Go get us some coffee and we’ll get a move on.” The list in front of him was growing rapidly. By the time Dubinsky returned with the coffee, it had filled a page.

“I put a pile of reports on your desk. Check through and see if anything has come in from Cobourg yet, will you? Either on the uncle or the boyfriend—whoever he is.” Sanders returned to the heap of paper in front of him.

The silence in their corner was unbroken except for the occasional grunt or snort of reaction, all lost in the ringing of phones and general bustle of the morning. Finally, Dubinsky looked up. “Here are a couple of reports in from Cobourg. You want them?”

“Just give me what’s in them for now.”

“Okay.” Dubinsky glanced rapidly over the two documents. “First of all, Matthew Jameson, her uncle, was finally contacted yesterday morning. Cobourg reports that he showed very little reaction to her death. He apparently said that he had not seen her since shortly after she left her husband, when she had come down to the farm, and he had ‘tried to explain to her what a wife’s duty was.’ That must have been an interesting conversation. Anyway, she simply stayed away after that, although she continued to write to him as regularly as before.” He looked up. “And I gather that as a result of this, identification was released to the newspapers last night. He also identified ‘Mike’ as Michael Hutchinson, whose father owns the Hutchinson Hardware Store in Cobourg. When contacted, Mr. Hutchinson said that he hadn’t seen his son since the middle of March but had been in frequent touch with him by telephone. He said that Mike would be very upset to hear of Mrs. Conway’s death, since he was deeply attached to her. And there’s the name of a motel out in Scarborough where he has been staying. His father hasn’t heard from him since last week—last Sunday, he thinks. And that’s about it.”

“I suppose we’d better get the hell out there and pick him up, then,” said Sanders. “Let’s move.”

As the bell shrilled through the halls at 12:15 that same Monday, Kingsmede Hall School for Girls was instantly transformed from ordered industry into shrieking chaos. Amanda snaffled her brown bag from her locker and headed upstairs to eat in a corner of the far-off Latin room, patronized by a cohesive group of like-minded souls. Jenny and Leslie were already opening their lunch bags and trying to swap bits of the contents for something better. Amanda looked incredulously at her peanut butter—why had she packed that?—and took a tragic mouthful. But it was only seconds before the talk moved from food to the police. And murder. The drama of Mrs. Conway’s falling victim to Johnson’s mad rapist vindicated her in their eyes. It even helped wipe out the memory of those hideous physics classes. Jenny, of course, was miles ahead of everyone else, as usual. She knew exactly what had happened, and where, and what the police were thinking on the subject right at this very moment.

“There were two plainclothes cops here on Thursday and Friday for hours, and they questioned all the teachers and Miss Johnson. Her name wasn’t Conway, you know, and she wasn’t really a physics teacher.”

“Who says that?” asked Leslie, with suspicion; she knew from experience the solid worth of Jenny’s information.

“My dad, that’s who. And he knows all about it. He said that she seemed to him to be a pretty strange character when he saw her at Parents’ Night, and he’s going to ask for one-eighth of my fees back, because we haven’t been properly taught.” Jenny nodded her head emphatically.

“That’s not true, Jenny,” said Amanda. “I mean, I couldn’t stand her, but she wasn’t that bad a teacher. We learned a lot of physics.”

“Maybe you did, brain,” said Jenny resentfully. “But I couldn’t understand a word she said, and I haven’t learned a thing in the last month.” Amanda opened her mouth and Jenny hastily added, “And don’t say that isn’t new.”

The door opened again, and a plumpish, dark-haired girl came in with lunch bag in one hand and well-thumbed French textbook in the other. A murmur of “Hi, Sarah” went around, and the group returned to the subject at hand.

“Well, I don’t care about that,” said Leslie. “What I want to know is who was the guy in the gray car outside her apartment all the time.”

“What gray car?” asked Sarah.

“There was this gray car,” explained Leslie. “And you know she lived right across the street from me and down a bit. Anyway, Amanda and I saw this guy in a gray Honda—you saw the guy, didn’t you, Amanda? What did he look like?”

“I’ll bet he was her boyfriend,” said Sarah. “And he got jealous and killed her.”

“Uh-huh,” said Jenny. “He was probably her husband. She was separated, you know. He was probably tailing her, to see what she was up to.”

“How do you know?” asked Leslie once more. “Wait, don’t tell me. Your dad told you.” Jenny nodded, her mouth full of salami and roll, and kept on chewing vigorously. “I’ll bet it was her husband, you know. What did he look like, Amanda? Did he look like someone who would kill Conway if he got mad?”

“How should I know?” replied Amanda. “He just looked like a guy, that’s all. I mean I didn’t go over and ask him if he liked killing people or anything like that. Besides, she was killed by the rapist.”