And she looked like a child, wearing a navy middy piped with white and a pleated skirt of creamy silk. Her face was scrubbed, and she seemed young enough to roll a hoop or engage in an exciting game of jacks. But she was smoking a joint; that muddied the picture.

"How are you, Squirrel?" I asked.

That pleased her. "You remembered my name!"

"Of course."

"You're my very best friend," she said. "Really."

I was as much saddened as startled. I had met her- what? Twice? Thrice? And now I was her very best friend. I was aware of her hostility toward her stepmother and reckoned she had adopted me as a confidant since the death of her daddy. I had never before served as a father figure and it made me a mite uneasy.

"I know how much you miss him," I murmured.

"My father?" she said. "He was the most wonderful and the most horriblest person in the world."

I looked at her. "Horriblest? Marcia, I'm not sure there is such a word."

"Well, you know what I mean. A devil. He was a devil." She offered me the roach. "Would you like a toke?" she asked.

"No, thank you."

She pinched it out carefully, wrapped the stub in a facial tissue, and tucked it into her purse. It was an ugly thing: red plastic with a tarnished chain handle. It looked like something from a garage sale.

"Listen, Archy," she said, "I want you to do me a favor."

I was immediately wary. If she asked me to assassinate her stepmother or blow up Fort Knox I wouldn't be a bit surprised.

"If I can," I said cautiously.

She took a white envelope from that awful purse and handed it to me. "Keep this," she said. "But you must promise not to open it unless something happens to me."

I inspected the envelope, sealed and with no writing on the outside. "Marcia, what do you think is going to happen to you?"

"I don't know," she said. "But if something does, then you can open the letter. It explains everything."

I sighed. "You're being very mysterious," I told her.

"Screw that," the child said. "All I want you to do is promise not to open the envelope unless something happens to me. If nothing happens, then you give the letter back to me."

"Nope," I said, "I won't do it. You're too vague. What if you decide to go to the Bahamas for a week. Do I open the envelope? What if you get appendicitis and they pop you in a hospital. Do I open the envelope? What if you're busted on a shoplifting charge. Do I open the envelope? What I'm trying to tell you, Squirrel, is that you've got to be more specific. Just saying 'If something happens to me' doesn't cut the mustard."

She thought about that, gnawing on the lower lip with her upper incisors. "All right," she said finally, "I'll be more specific. You must promise not to open the envelope and read the letter unless I die. Okay?"

"You're not going to die," I said.

She flipped out. "Stop arguing!" she screamed at me. "Stop treating me like a stupid kid! Just do what I asked you! Promise me this instant!"

I put a hand on her arm. "Take it easy," I said as softly as I could. "Of course I promise to do what you ask. I'll keep the envelope and won't open it until you die. And you can have it back, unopened, whenever you like. Is that satisfactory?"

"Yeah," she said, beginning to sniffle, "that's fine." She took another tissue and wiped her nose. "I'm sorry I blasted you, Archy, but people have been pushing me around and I can't take it anymore. But everything's going to get better. You'll see. My money worries will be over and I'll be able to live my life the way I want to."

"Glad to hear it," I said, suspecting she was handing me a lot of hooey.

"Oh yes," she said and smiled for the first time. "Things are going to change. I'm in the driver's seat now and certain people are going to do things my way if they know what's good for them. They think they're so smart but I'm smarter."

I hadn't the slightest idea of what she was talking about, of course, but her words sounded to me like a threat against a person or persons unknown, and that worried me.

"Marcia," I said, "I don't wish to pry. I know nothing about your personal affairs and have no desire to know. But if you're in a sticky situation and would like advice, assistance, or just encouragement, I'd be happy to help."

"I don't need help," she said disdainfully. "From you or anyone else. Daddy is dead and can't tell me what to do. No one can tell me what to do. I'm in control of my own life now. For the first time. And I know how to do it."

I was convinced she didn't. She wasn't a child, she was an infant, an impetuous, disturbed, and possibly violent infant. I saw no way to aid her without becoming immersed in the same madness that was obviously engulfing her. So I did nothing. Save yourself. It's a hard and sometimes cruel dictum. But it's the first law of survival.

"I wish you the best, Squirrel," I said. "I hope all your plans succeed." I opened the door of the Cherokee, holding that damned white envelope. "Please let me know how you make out."

"Sure," she said with an elfin grin that broke my heart.

I stood there and watched her gun up the ramp and out of the garage. I was in no mood to return to my claustrophobic office, so I remounted the Miata and headed for home. I needed a long, slow ocean swim, the family cocktail hour, and a merry dinner with my parents to reassure me that God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

And it worked-for a while. I arose from the table feeling content and full of beans (actually they were haricots verts with slivered almonds), but then my father summoned me to his study. I followed him with the premonition that my serene mood was soon to evaporate.

"Glass of port, Archy?" he inquired.

That cinched it. When the patriarch invites me to have a postprandial libation it usually means he's going to give me a world-class migraine in the form of an unwelcome assignment. The proffered drink is his a priori apology.

He did the pouring, from one of his crystal decanters into Waterford goblets. He seated himself behind his massive desk and I took the nearest leather club chair. We sipped our wine. I thought it rather musty but I didn't tell him that.

"Anything new on Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth's young lady?" he asked.

"No, sir," I replied. "Nothing definite."

"His mother came in today. Apparently her son has proposed and the woman in question has accepted. Were you aware of that, Archy?"

"Yes, sir."

"I wish you had informed me."

"I learned of it only last night, father."

He accepted that. "Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth was quite upset. Perhaps indignant would be more accurate."

"I can imagine."

"However, I think she is reconciled to the fact that her son is determined to marry. Unless, of course, your investigation should prove the lady to be completely unsuitable."

"I've uncovered nothing to date that would disqualify her, sir." Naturally I said nothing of uncovering the lady herself.

"But you're continuing your investigation?"

"Yes, father, I am."

"Good. But our client has raised another objection. Before she gives her final blessing to the match she is determined to retrieve her son's letters to that unfortunate woman in Fort Lauderdale-what was her name?"

"Shirley Feebling."

"Yes. Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth fears that if she gives her approval, it's possible that before, during, or shortly after the marriage those embarrassing letters might surface as a cover story in one of our more lurid tabloids."

"She has a point."

"Indeed she does, Archy. I told her of the efforts I have made, with the assistance of Sergeant Rogoff, to seek the return of the letters from the Lauderdale police, to no avail. Their position is that they can release no evidence, particularly that found at the murder scene, until the case is cleared."