Clearly Dorothy Connors could give her no help. Jean rose to go. "I remember that Peggy Kimball was the office nurse when I saw Dr. Connors. I've left a message for her and hope she'll call me. Maybe she'll know something. Thank you, Mrs. Connors. Please don't get up. I'll find my way out."

She offered her hand to Dorothy Connors and then was shocked to see that the expression on the other woman's face could only be construed as extreme alarm.

Mark Fleischman checked into the Glen-Ridge House at one o'clock, dropped off his bag, phoned Jean's room but got no answer, and then went down to the dining room. He was surprised and pleased to see Jean sitting alone at a corner table, and with quick strides, he hurried over to her.

"Are you waiting for anyone, or would you like company?" he asked, then watched as the somber expression on her face was replaced by a warm smile.

"Mark, I didn't expect to see you! Of course, sit down. I was just about to order lunch, and nobody's planning to join me."

"Then consider yourself joined." He settled on the chair opposite her. "I put my briefcase with my cell phone in the trunk of the car by mistake," he said, "so I didn't get your message till I unpacked last night. I called the hotel early this morning, and the operator told me that Laura wasn't back and that the police were checking phone records. That's when I decided to rearrange my schedule and come back. I flew down and rented a car."

"That was very nice of you," Jean said sincerely. "We're all terribly worried about Laura." Quickly she gave him a rundown of what had transpired since he had left after the brunch the day before.

"You say you came back to the hotel with Sam Deegan, that man you were having a drink with the other night, and when you knew Laura was missing, he began an investigation?" Mark queried.

"Yes," Jean said, realizing she had awakened Mark's curiosity as to why Sam Deegan had been with her in the first place. "Sam followed me to the hotel because I was giving him something that our friend Alice Sommers is interested in seeing."

Alice is interested in seeing the faxes, she told herself, so it's not a complete fabrication. Looking across the table at Mark and seeing the concern in his eyes made her want to tell him about Lily, to ask him as a psychiatrist if he thought the threats were genuine, or whether someone was only setting her up for blackmail.

"Ready for menus?" the waitress chirped.

"Yes, thank you."

They both decided on a club sandwich and tea. "Coffee for breakfast, tea for lunch, and a glass of wine to start dinner," Mark said. "I've noticed that seems to be your routine, too, Jeannie." I guess it is.

"I've noticed a lot of things about you this weekend, and they reminded me of the years we were at Stonecroft."

"Such as?"

"Well, you always were very smart in school. You were also very quiet. And I remember that you were very sweet-that hasn't changed. Then I thought about one time during the freshman year when I was really down and you were very kind to me."

"I don't remember that."

"I won't go into it, but you were, and I also admired the way you held your head high when you were upset about your parents."

"Not always." Jean cringed inwardly, remembering the times she had started crying in class from the stress of the arguments at home.

It was as though he could read her mind, Jean realized, as Mark Fleischman continued. "I tried to hand you my handkerchief one day when you were upset, but you just shook your head and dabbed furiously at your eyes with a soggy Kleenex. I wanted to help you then, and I want to help you now. Coming from the airport I heard on the radio that the reporter kid who hounded us at the reunion is talking to the media about what he calls 'The Lunch Table Serial Killer.' Even if you're not worried about that possibility, I am. And with Laura missing, you're the only one of those girls left."

"I wish I was just worried about myself," Jean said.

"Then what are you worried about? Come on, Jean, tell me. I am trained to spot stress in people, and if I've seen anyone under stress, it was you the other night when you were talking to Sam Deegan, who you now tell me is an investigator from the district attorney's office."

The busboy was pouring water into their glasses. It gave Jean a moment to think. I do remember when Mark wanted to give me his handkerchief, she thought. I was so angry at myself for crying, and equally angry at him for noticing. He wanted to help me then. He wants to help me now. Should I tell him about Lily?

She saw him studying her and knew he was waiting her out. He wants me to talk to him. Should I? She looked directly back at him. He's one of those men who looks as good with glasses as without them, she thought. He has wonderful brown eyes. Those little specks of yellow in them are like sunlight.

She shrugged and raised her eyebrows. "You remind me of a professor I had in college who, when he asked a question, would just stare at you until he got an answer."

"That's exactly what I'm doing, Jean. One of my patients calls it my wise owl look."

The waitress came to the table with the sandwiches. "Right back with your tea," she said cheerfully.

Jean waited until the tea was poured, then said quietly, "Your wise owl look has convinced me, Mark. I guess I will tell you about Lily."

Sam Deegan's first act upon arriving at his office was to call the district attorney in Los Angeles and ask to be put in touch with Carmen Russo, the investigator who had headed the inquiry into the death of Alison Kendall.

"Death by accidental drowning was the determination, and we're sticking by that," Russo told him. "Her friends agree that she went for an early swim every morning. Door was open to the house, but nothing was taken. Pricey jewelry on top of her vanity. Five hundred dollars cash and credit cards in her wallet. She was extremely neat. Nothing out of place anywhere in the house, on the grounds, or in the pool house. Except for being dead, she was in perfect health. Her heart was strong. No sign of alcohol or drugs."

"Any suggestion at all of violence?" Sam asked.

"A slight bruise on her shoulder, but that was it. Without more evidence, it's not enough to suggest that it was a homicide. We took photographs, of course, but then released the body."

"Yes, I know. Her ashes are buried here in the family plot," Sam said. "Thanks, Carmen." He realized he was reluctant to break the connection. "What is going on with her home?"

"Her parents live in Palm Springs. They're up in years. From what I understand, they have Kendall 's housekeeper still taking care of the place until they can bring themselves to have an estate sale. They can't be hungry for money. In that location the house has to be worth a couple of million bucks."

Discouraged, Sam hung up the phone. His every instinct told him that Alison Kendall had not died a natural death. By pointing out that the five dead women from the same class at Stonecroft had shared the same lunch table, Jake Perkins had latched onto something. Sam was sure of it. But if Kendall 's death hadn't raised suspicion, how much luck would he have in trying to establish a pattern of murder with the four others who had died over a stretch of nearly twenty years?

His phone rang-it was Rich Stevens, the district attorney. "Sam, thanks to that big mouth Perkins, we've had to call a press conference to make some kind of statement. Come on in here, and we'll figure out what to say."

Five minutes later, in Stevens' office, they debated the best way to defuse the media onslaught. "We believe we may have a serial killer. We've got to make this guy feel secure," Sam argued. "We tell it like it is. Alison Kendall's death was the result of accidental drowning. Even knowing that four other women who were once close friends have died, the Los Angeles police find nothing suspicious about her death. Laura Wilcox phoned the hotel to say her plans were indefinite. It is nothing more than a matter of conjecture on the part of a hotel employee that she sounded nervous. She is an adult with the right to privacy and should be treated as such. We are making inquiries into the deaths of the other women who shared the lunch table years ago, but it is obvious the accidents that claimed their lives-or, in the case of Gloria Martin, her suicide-indicate no pattern that suggests a serial killer."