“Poor Baby Hallard,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Now Jane sounded offended.

“Eighteen-plus years of being lectured to by your matronly voice of reason.”

She laughed. “Just imagine how Sean feels. But seriously, Rach, what has you all worked up?”

“Where should I start?” I asked dejectedly.

“At the beginning,” said Emma. “And look, we got you a Diet Coke.” She waved the can before me, and I perked up.

“Wow,” said Hilary. “If only Pavlov could have seen Rachel and Diet Coke. He wouldn’t have needed to keep tormenting those poor dogs.”

Under the careful questioning of my friends, I recounted that morning’s adventures, starting with the takeover the Barnetts had launched and my suspicions about the attacks on Sara being a little too convenient.

“Let me get this straight,” said Luisa, ever the skeptic. “You think that Barbara Barnett tried to kill Sara? All so that she could help her son take over a not very big company when they already have plenty of money?”

“From everything you’ve said before Adam sounds like such a weenie,” said Hilary. “Are you sure he has it in him?”

“Adam’s just the puppet,” I said. “Barbara’s the puppet master.”

“I just can’t believe that she would be chatting you up about makeup and diet tips in the ladies’ room if she were behind the attacks on Sara,” added Jane.

“Oh my God. I am a complete idiot,” I blurted out.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Rachel. Everybody jumps to conclusions sometimes,” said Emma. “It’s perfectly understandable that your thoughts got a bit convoluted.”

“No, it’s not that at all. If anything, I just realized how unconvoluted my thoughts are.”

“We’re listening,” prompted Jane.

“Ephedra. Or some other sort of diet pill. I bet that’s what Barbara was taking in the ladies’ room this morning. And it’s the exact sort of thing Matthew was talking about last night. If you gave a big dose of that to someone you could kill her. Hell, a big dose put Sara into cardiac arrest. Barbara Barnett has a stash of ephedra, and she used it to try to kill Sara.”

Hilary snorted. Unfortunately, she’d been drinking orange juice at the same time, so some of it dribbled out of her nose. Jane grimaced and handed her a napkin. “You’re saying that Barbara Barnett tried to kill Sara with diet pills?”

“I don’t know. But maybe. I mean, she was at the hospital yesterday afternoon, too. And when we left she was saying that she’d left her gloves in Sara’s room. Maybe she sneaked back in and put something in Sara’s IV while she was asleep. It’s possible. Anyhow, the takeover and Barbara trying to kill Sara are only part of the problem. I haven’t even told you the worst part yet.”

“You mean the part about your boyfriend cheating on you?” asked Hilary.

“No, the other worst part. The part about Love Story guy being the prostitute killer.” I filled them in on my encounter with Jonathan Beasley and his hoisting bodies into the trunk of his car with a telltale Harvard scarf knotted around his neck, the same one he’d used to strangle various Boston area “lowlifes.”

This time Luisa snorted orange juice out her nose. “You’ve got to be kidding. You really think Jonathan Beasley-the Ryan O’Neal to your Ali MacGraw-is a serial killer?” I knew I should never have told her about the Ryan O’Neal/Ali MacGraw thing.

“Why not? I mean, Ted Bundy was supposed to be totally charming.”

“Rachel’s right,” said Hilary. “Ted Bundy was a hottie.”

“I can’t believe you just called Ted Bundy a ‘hottie,’” said Jane.

“I can’t believe you just used the word ‘hottie,’” said Luisa.

“I didn’t even get a chance to see him,” said Emma sadly.

“Ted Bundy?”

“No, you idiot. Love Story guy.”

“He’s very cute,” said Hilary.

“In a Ken doll sort of way,” added Luisa.

“But Rachel likes that sort of thing,” interjected Jane.

“Could you all shut up already?” My voice, which had been plaintive before, now sounded downright whiny. “I need your help, here. On any other day, I could handle it. But not when everything with Peter is going up in flames. Or down in flames. Whichever.”

Emma patted my hand solicitously and flagged the waitress for another Diet Coke.

“Which part is worse?” asked Hilary. “That Peter’s cheating on you or that your other love interest is a serial killer?”

“Is that a helpful comment, Hilary?” asked Luisa.

“You’ll feel better once you can tell the police everything,” Emma reassured me. “I mean, it’s one thing for you to have to worry about the takeover and whatever’s going on with Peter, but they should be dealing with all of the other stuff.”

How could I tell her that all of the other stuff was almost a welcome distraction from the takeover and whatever was going on with Peter?

“Oh, no,” said Jane.

“Oh, no what?” I asked.

“Don’t look now.” In unison, we all turned to look in the direction she’d told us not to look.

We were sitting near the base of an escalator leading down from the shops on the upper floors. So when I saw the woman on the escalator carrying the trademark blue Tiffany’s bag, laughing up at something her companion had said, it didn’t immediately register. After all, there was a Tiffany’s up there, among other stores.

Then I noticed that the woman holding the Tiffany’s bag looked familiar.

With a sinking feeling, I realized that not only did I know her, the man standing next to her, the one making her laugh, was someone I knew very well. In fact, we’d shared a bed the previous night.

It was Peter, with Abigail. And they looked as if their shopping expedition had been an unqualified success.

T hey moved as if in slow motion, she standing one step below him on the escalator. I watched as she turned back toward him, to better catch his words. The movement made her long dark hair swing, a silken curtain flowing from one shoulder to the other, and as she tilted her face up the light glossed the fine curves of her high cheekbones, delicate nose and oval forehead. I could see Peter’s familiar profile, bending down to make himself heard, gazing into her expressive dark eyes with the affectionate look I knew so well and speaking with the lips I knew even better.

“Is that Abigail? If so, she really does look like Christy Turlington,” said Hilary.

Jane, Luisa and Emma shushed her in unison, and I was pretty confident that Jane added a sharp elbow to Hilary’s ribs.

“I mean, she looks like how Christy Turlington would look if Christy Turlington were a hussy. You’re much prettier, Rach.” But I could barely hear her over the laughter of the Jinxing Gods.

Peter and Abigail stepped off the escalator and paused, still deep in animated conversation. He put his hand on her arm, as if to emphasize a point. Then Abigail kissed him on an indeterminate spot somewhere between the cheek and the lips-it was hard to tell from where we were sitting since the back of her head blocked his face. Being tall and gazellelike, she didn’t need to stand on tiptoe to kiss him, the way I did. Then Peter headed off in the direction of the convention center at a rapid clip.

“That’s it,” said Hilary. “He can’t treat Rachel like this. I’m going after him. He needs to get his head on straight.” She was half out of her seat, but Jane and Luisa each took an arm and managed to restrain her.

Abigail, meanwhile, had started toward the Starbucks adjacent to where we sat.

I don’t know what possessed me. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would have hid under the table until she’d passed. But so much had happened already that morning that I seemed to have entered an altered state of consciousness. Unbidden, Twilight Zone Rachel called out Abigail’s name, loudly and in a welcoming tone.