"Of course."

"So I went over to see if everything was all right. To tell you the truth, I thought maybe he had fallen asleep. Or passed out."

"Passed out? He was a heavy drinker?"

"He did his share," she said wryly. "Rum, mostly."

"Uh-huh. Tell me this if you will, Mrs. Folsby, when you entered the studio, did you see anything that might lead you to believe that he had been working? For instance, was there an unfinished painting on one of his easels?"

She thought a moment. "No," she said, "there was nothing on the big easel. That was the one he liked to use for his portraits. And nothing on the two smaller ones either."

I was disappointed. "So you saw absolutely no evidence that he had been working in the hours prior to his death?"

She closed her eyes briefly as if trying to recall details of that frightful scene. "Now that you mention it," she said hesitantly, "there was something odd. On the taboret next to the big easel was Mr. Hawkin's palette and the paints on it were still wet. I could see them glistening under the lights. Also, there was a long-handled brush alongside the palette, and that had wet paint, a kind of creamy crimson, on the bristles. That wasn't like him at all because he was very finicky about cleaning his brushes and palette when he wasn't working."

"But you saw no evidence of what he might have been working on?"

She shook her head.

"Curious," I said, "but I suppose there's a very obvious explanation for it." (I didn't suppose anything of the sort, of course.) "Another question, Mrs. Folsby: When Mr. Hawkin was doing a portrait, did he ever allow anyone else in the studio other than the sitter?"

"Never," she said definitely. "He was very strict about that. He said the presence of an observer would distract the model and destroy his rapport with whomever he was painting."

"I expect most portrait artists feel that way. A final question, please. You know how people in Palm Beach love to gossip. I've heard rumors there was serious discord in the Hawkin family, an atmosphere of hostility in this house. Would you care to comment on that?"

"No," she said stonily.

I persisted. "You mean no discord or no, you don't wish to comment?"

"I don't wish to comment."

I admired her. There was loyalty up. I hoped there would be loyalty down.

"Perfectly understandable," I said, nodding, "and I wish to thank you for your patience and cooperation. You have been very helpful."

"I have?" she said, mildly surprised.

I bid her good-bye and left the house. Marcia Hawkin was coming up the walk carrying one of those miniature Tiffany's shopping bags. She saw me and stopped suddenly.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"I stopped by for just a moment to express my sympathy to Mrs. Folsby on the death of your father."

She made a sound. I believe she intended it to be a sardonic laugh, but I thought it more a honk.

"My father was a goat," she said. "A goat!"

Then she strode into the house and slammed the door. The Villa Bile indeed.

I drove directly home, looking forward to an ocean swim that would slosh away, even temporarily, all the clotted human emotions I had dealt with that day. But it was not to be. I was just tugging on my new, shocking pink Speedo when my phone shrilled.

"What were you doing at the Hawkin place?" Sgt. Al Rogoff said in that gritty voice he uses when he's ready to chew nails.

I sighed. "Who squealed on me, Al? Mrs. Folsby? Marcia Hawkin?"

"Neither," he said. "That guard I parked outside the studio had orders to watch for visitors. He just reported seeing a guy wearing purple slacks and driving a maroon Miata. Who could that be but Monsieur Archibald McNally?"

"The slacks were lilac," I protested, "and the car is screaming red."

"What were you doing there?" he repeated. "Nosing around?"

"Of course," I said. "Any objections?"

"Not if you don't get in my way," he said. "Learn anything?"

"Al, is it trade-off time?"

"Run it by me first."

I related what Mrs. Folsby had told me: When she entered the scene of the crime she saw no painting on the easel but had noted wet pigments on Silas Hawkin's palette and brush.

Rogoff was silent a moment. "How do you figure it?" he asked finally.

"I don't," I said. "But it's intriguing, isn't it?"

"Your favorite word," he said grumpily. "You find things intriguing that I find a pain in the ass. If the guy was working on a painting before he was offed, where is it?"

"A puzzlement. Did you check Si's ledger? Is anything missing?"

He replied with a question of his own. "That guy you said you were doing a credit check on, Hector Johnson, is he related to Theodosia Johnson?"

"Her father."

"Uh-huh. Well, she's in the ledger. Hawkin did an oil portrait of her."

"I know, Al. I saw it at the Pristine Gallery. It may still be on display. Positively enchanting."

"Yeah? I'll have to go take a look. But the thing is-and I know you're going to find this intriguing-right after her portrait is listed in Hawkin's ledger another painting is noted. It's just called 'Untitled.' "

"That's odd."

"Not half so odd as the fact that we can't find it. All the other paintings in the studio have titles and are recorded in the ledger. The widow, the daughter, and the maid say they know nothing about 'Untitled,' don't know what it is, never heard Hawkin mention a word about it."

"And now you're guessing the same thing I'm guessing, aren't you, sergeant? That 'Untitled' was the painting Si was working on before he was murdered."

"Could be," Rogoff said. "And the killer walked off with it. Listen, Archy, are you still checking out this Hector Johnson?"

"Oh yes."

"And his daughter, too?"

"Definitely."

"Have you met them?"

"I've met her briefly, but I haven't met Hector."

"Keep on it, will you?" Al said. "Maybe Silas told them something about that untitled painting."

"I'll be happy to ask," I said. "It gives me an excuse to see her again."

"Oh-ho. A winner, is she?"

"Divine is an understatement," I assured him. "I think I'm in love."

"So what else is new?" he said.

I finally got him off the phone after promising to report on my meeting with Theodosia and Hector Johnson. It was then too late for a dip in the Atlantic. So I peeled off my snazzy Speedo, showered, and dressed in time to attend the family cocktail hour and dinner.

I then retired to my one-man dormitory to bring my journal au courant with the day's events. After reading over what I had scribbled, I was dismayed to see how my initial inquiry into the trustworthiness of Theo Johnson appeared to be interacting with the investigation into the murder of Silas Hawkin.

I simply refused to believe that the beautiful Madam X could possibly be involved in that heinous crime. But then Lucrezia Borgia was hardly a gorgon, and neither was Lizzie Borden. It was all enough to make one ponder the advantages of celibacy.

Which I did, and finally decided there were none.