“We sent them packing,” Dorothy said. “Values are a part of survival, and that was important to Patty, after her little grandson was so brutally murdered. She told me the main reason she left Hollywood was the brutality and glitz and false values, the way the entertainment industry changed, over the years she was a star.”

Turning in through the inn’s wrought-iron gate, they crossed through the patio gardens. The sprawling, Spanish-style building, with its pale stucco walls, red tile roof, and generous inner patio, looked as if it might have stood during the days of the Spanish ranches and the first missions. It had, in fact, been built in the late years of the nineteenth century and had served as an inn since its beginnings, under half a dozen owners. Patty Rose had bought it when she retired from Hollywood and moved to a quieter environment. Having always loved Molena Point, she soon became a comfortable part of the village family.

They went in through the tearoom that wouldn’t open until midafternoon, when formal tea would be served. The cheerful, chintz-curtained room was chilly, with no fire burning on the hearth to warm the little round tables and the Mexican tile floor. Dorothy led her on through, to her office.

Nothing had changed in Patty’s office. Dorothy liked it just as Patty had designed it, the wicker-and-silk sofa, the big leather chair facing the desk, the hand-carved desk and bookshelves that had been made by a Mexican craftsman Patty had known during her Hollywood days. The carved screen behind the desk that, Charlie knew from talking with Joe Grey, concealed a wall safe where each day’s receipts were held.

“Ryan and I have an appointment with the mayor at three,” Dorothy said. “His secretary said he was at a meeting up the coast. I think that was an excuse, to give him time to talk with the building inspector and get their ducks lined up. Against us, of course. I did my best to-”

There was a knock at the door, and a tall young waiter wheeled in a cart bearing two covered plates of the inn’s famous shrimp melt, a pot of hot tea, and a selection of small, rich desserts. Reaching deftly past Charlie, he pulled out the sliding tray at the back of the desk and set her place with a linen mat and napkin and heavy silver flatware, then he set Dorothy’s place on her side of the desk. Charlie found it interesting to see Dorothy in this new light, all spiffed up and so businesslike, and yet so comfortable in her new role. Patty had trained her protégée well.

When the waiter had gone, Dorothy said, “Even though Max has more men patrolling, I’m hiring more guards. I find it incredible that someone, planning to abduct a child, would have the nerve to come here in daylight and take pictures. Incredible that none of us saw him, that none of the children did.” She shivered. “But those telephoto shots of our little girls. You can tell just about where the photographer stood, behind the cypress trees across the street. Max said that Dallas photographed the area and made casts of some shoe prints.” She looked at Charlie. “Does everyone get this much attention? Is it because we’re friends? Or because this involves children?”

“It’s the children,” Charlie said. “The whole department is on the watch, they hate this kind of predator. I wish…This is just so sick. And now, at Christmastime, when little kids should be happy…When innocence should be a good thing, and not a safety problem.”

“We try our best to keep the kids informed, but not to scare them unduly. The little ones are tender, and kids dramatize everything. But they have to be alert, Charlie. We’ve stressed that they’re better equipped than most children, if they use common sense and stay together. We have to trust what we’ve taught them. We’re hoping, too, that the excitement of the Christmas pageant and the playhouse contest will give them a heightened sense of community, of being together.”

Dorothy was quiet for a moment; then, “It’s less than a year since Patty’s vindictive murder, and I keep wondering if someone wants to take out that same hatred on the school…”

They had all been at the theater that night, at a retrospective of Patty Rose’s old movies. It was the one night that Patty herself hadn’t attended. They returned from the theater to find her dead, lying in blood on the exterior stairs that led down to the parking garage. It was Kit who had found her. It was the kit who, all alone, had tracked and found her killer-and had subsequently been locked in the house with him, trapped and terrified.

Charlie finished her lemon tart and sipped her tea, puzzling over her feeling of almost knowing something, something she wasn’t seeing. She looked at Dorothy. “This is such a strange set of events. I keep wondering, Are we all missing something? Something right in front of us, that we all should recognize? Something I can’t bring clear.”

Dorothy thought about that. “Did your cleaning girls mention anything unusual, when they were up here?” Ever since Dorothy lost three of her cleaning staff, in September, Charlie’s crew had done most of the work while Dorothy interviewed for new hires.

“That’s been a week ago,” Charlie said. “They cleaned up here the end of last week. Mavity didn’t mention anything, but I’ll ask.”

“They came back yesterday. I thought you’d changed the schedule. I’d just pulled in through the gate when I saw the van pull away from the curb, down by the studio. I wondered why they didn’t park on the grounds as they usually do.”

Charlie frowned, puzzled. Maybe Mavity’s crew had cleaned one of their accounts near the school, though she didn’t remember anyone up there changing their standing appointments. And why would Mavity park down at the end of the school?

Charlie seldom went out on the work crews anymore, but she kept the schedules, paid the girls’ salaries and benefits, and handled the paperwork. Her cleaning teams were booked months in advance, and she could use more help, but it was hard to find competent new hires. Dorothy was proof of that, as hard a time as she was having finding acceptable people.

“I thought I saw one of the school’s old cleaning women in the village, a few days ago,” Dorothy said. “She drove off before I could hail her. I wish she’d come back-though I wasn’t sure it was the same woman. Her hair was black instead of mouse brown. Same tall, awkward look. She was a good worker. A rather sour sort, but she didn’t mind heavy, dirty work. She did most of the cleanup when we bought the old studio, got rid of some trash and an invasion of mice. Good thing the paintings had all been moved out, long before. Those mice would have done hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of damage.”

They parted after their delicious lunch, and Charlie, walking back through the village to her car, thought about the old stone studio. It was easy to imagine the lovely isolation Anna Stanhope had enjoyed, living and working in that charming retreat.

She had to wonder about Anna’s studio appearing, at different angles, in the background of several of the intruder’s telephoto copies. Well, but the studio was there, she told herself. Of course it appeared; a photographer could hardly mask it out.