As a gossip columnist extraordinaire, he had only to glance at that gown to recognize the designer, and that particular fashionista had died years before the close of the last century. However, even secondhand, this dress was well beyond the purse of a librarian-but not Sarah Winston, her companion and, no doubt about it, her benefactor.

One problem-the gift of a used dress would hardly fit the style of a multimillionaire.

And now he realized that the ballgown had been given to Mavis Hardy long ago when it was new, for here were all the signs of a reunion. The women embraced, drank wine and wept.

William Swahn returned Isabelle's wave. The black strapless gown was out of character for a woman who seldom wore lipstick. And the thigh-high slit was daring. So grown-up.

He missed the little girl, the shy redheaded wanderer always looking for love and a safe place to catch her breath. As a child and a teenager adrift among strangers-and only one old friend-she had always come to his table, demanding asylum. Tonight she resumed this old custom and sat down with him again. She stared at the giant ice sculptures. They worked an unnerving effect on her.

William lifted one hand to flag down a waiter bearing wineglasses. "I saw Oren Hobbs come in with the judge and Miss Rice."

Isabelle pretended not to hear this as she lifted two champagne flutes from the waiter's tray.

"There's a law against what you did, Belle." He had intended this as a tease, a friendly rebuke for her recent streak of violence against a certain young man. When she turned to him with guilty surprise, he decided upon a different tack, an older offense. "You lied to the sheriff-that alibi for Josh's brother. I know you had a crush on Oren Hobbs when you were a child, but that was-"

"I never did."

"Of course you did. But I can't believe it lasted five years. You were sixteen years old when you gave him that fake alibi."

So why the lie to save Oren Hobbs? Had she known the boy was innocent? Did Isabelle have a suspect of her own in those days? If so, it must have been someone close to her, someone she would never give up to the sheriff.

William Swahn sat well back in his chair, pushed there, as if revelation had punching power.

Later, at the keyboard of his computer, Ferris Monty would describe his companion as a vitriolic hamster who drank a lot. The town council-woman accepted his invitation to sit down at his table.

"I don't gossip," she said.

But they all said that.

In answer to his question on the out-of-town guests, the hamster replied, "Those are Addison 's clients. Don't you read Rolling Stone or Forbes? Criminals, every last one of them." When queried on the history of the ball, she told him that this very table had once been reserved for the late Millard Straub. "Mean little prick. He sat here with his oxygen tank, and no one said a word to him all night. But his wife danced every dance and had a high old time. There she is now."

Ferris turned to see Evelyn Straub standing at the caterer's bar, a grande dame in midnight blue and pearls.

"Back in the day," said the hamster, "Evelyn was a showstopper."

He nodded in agreement, for he had known her then, but having been barred from every ball, he had never seen Evelyn dance. "Her husband died suddenly, didn't he?"

"Not sudden enough. It's no wonder his wife took up with that boy, Oren Hobbs."

"And everyone knew?"

"No, not till the day Oren came home. I got that story from a guest at the Straub Hotel."

Ferris was bent over his notebook, jotting lines, when the hamster said, "Could you write down that I killed Millard Straub? That used to be my fantasy."

"You think he was murdered?"

"Oh, no, he died of old age-passed away peacefully in his sleep. There's no justice in this world."

"My mother married him for his money," said Isabelle. "You were the one she loved."

William Swahn shook his head more in wonder than denial. Why was she so insistent on this revision of history? "Your mother was very much in love with Addison. She told me so before the wedding."

"She should have married you."

"I was a child," said William, reminding her for the second time in as many days.

"You loved her."

"I was smitten. I'll admit to that much… And then I grew up."

"You were so handsome in your policeman's uniform."

"Belle, you never saw me in a uniform. Years went by before-"

"Mom has a photograph of you. It was taken the day you graduated from the police academy."

William well remembered that ceremony and also the picture he had posed for with Sarah by his side. He had his own copy of that photograph, and he treasured it. It had been displayed on his bedroom wall for years- and recently hidden in a closet. But how did this old souvenir figure into Belle's false recollections-why this artless attempt to bind him to Sarah?

"You still love my mother. I know you do."

"I'll always be her friend… and yours." This was true. Over the past two decades, Sarah had not said more than a handful of words to him, but he was constant.

"And you'll always watch out for Mom, won't you?"

"Yes, Belle." She had extracted this promise from him days ago. It had caused him worry then-and now.

When Isabelle had left the table, he looked for Sarah in the crowd. He saw her standing on the fringe and far away, feet moving to the music, and she was a little unsteady for the wine.

He whispered, "Don't fall."

A bottle of beer-his beverage of choice-was set down on the table alongside his untouched glass of wine. "Thank you," he said, looking up at Oren Hobbs, who played the gentleman tonight, waiting for an invitation to sit down. William nodded to the empty chair.

Hobbs turned the chair around and straddled it as he tipped back his own bottle. "I wasn't the only kid in Coventry who was shipped out of town." He stared at Isabelle's retreating back. "She was sent away before I was."

William sipped from his bottle, buying time to think, and then he sighed. "Cold beer on a summer night. You've won my heart. Does that scare you?"

"Relax," said Hobbs. "She never made my shortlist. She's got the killer instinct-I can vouch for that-but her style is piss poor. I'm still alive." He insisted on a toast to Isabelle, the most incompetent of assassins, and the two men clinked glasses. From any distance out of earshot, they might be taken for the best of friends tonight.

Addison Winston stood a short distance away-watching. A guest was speaking to him, but he seemed unaware of this, so intent was he on Oren Hobbs.

Jim Web, the postmaster, sat down at Ferris Monty's table. "That story I told you about Oren and the little Winston girl? Well, this is where it all began-the very first birthday ball."

Ferris's pen was at the ready, poised over a fresh page in his notebook. What happened?"

"Lots of people would still like to know. Back then, Belle Winston was only eleven years old, skinny and shy." He pointed to the other side of the room. "She was trying to disappear into that row of potted trees. Oren was over by the bandstand. They were twenty feet apart when it happened. Ever see two children struck by lightning? It was a thing to behold. The two of them just stared at each other, circling around like little foxes scouting the territory.

"The band started playing, and people were pairing off for a slow dance. Belle was standing there, waiting so patiently. Oren couldn't take his eyes off her, but he hung back. Then the girl made it easy for him, though it cost her a lot to do it. Like I said, she was shy. She walked out on the dance floor all alone. Well, four mules couldn't have held that boy back. He moved toward her. Heads were turning everywhere. People stopped dancing to watch them. Then the crowd made a circle around those two kids when they met at the center of the room.