"I do not," she said sharply. "But if you want to tell them the other things-well, that's up to you. I've done all I can do."

"I understand completely," I said, "and I thank you for your honesty. And for your hospitality."

I finished that wretched iced tea and rose to leave. She accompanied me to the front door. Just before I departed I said, "Mrs. Folsby, do you think Marcia Hawkin killed her father?"

"No," she said, shaking her head, "she loved him too much."

I drove back to the Island in a broody mood. I figured that conversation with Mrs. Folsby had yielded one Yes, one No, and one Maybe.

The Yes was the information that Silas Hawkin was having an incestuous relationship with Marcia. After what Lolly Spindrift had told me of the man's sexual proclivities, I could believe it. And probably, as Mrs. Folsby had guessed, for many years.

The No was her accusation-or suggestion-that Louise Hawkin had killed her stepdaughter. That I could not believe. Marcia had been strangled, and that is very, very rarely the modus operandi of a murderess. Also, I did not think Louise had the strength-to be crude, it takes muscle to wring a human neck-and what could possibly be her motive since Silas, the reason for the two women's enmity, had been eliminated.

The Maybe was Mrs. Folsby's stout declaration that Marcia didn't murder her father because she loved him too much. Perhaps. But that unhinged child had also described daddy to me as the "horribilest" person in the world. Theirs could have been a love-hate affair in which the second verb finally triumphed over the first.

It was then a bit past noon and I lunched alone at Bice, ordering a hearts-of-palm salad and a single glass of sauvignon blanc. Feeling justifiably virtuous at having put a choke collar on my appetite, I returned to the McNally Building and phoned Mrs. Trelawney. I asked if the seigneur might be available for a short conference. She was absent a moment and then returned to tell me I had been granted a ten-minute audience before the boss departed for lunch with a client.

I scampered up to the sanctum and found him at his antique rolltop desk filling a briefcase with blue-bound documents.

"Can't it wait, Archy?" he said irascibly.

"Just take a moment, sir," I said. "It's something I think you should be aware of."

I related exactly what Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth had told me of the prenuptial agreement demanded by Theodosia Johnson. The sire halted his packing to listen closely. And when I mentioned the amount requested, five million dollars, one of his tangled eyebrows rose slowly as I knew it would.

"A tidy sum," he remarked wryly when I had finished. "I am not too familiar with the precedents of prenuptial agreements, but I shall certainly research the subject. Why didn't Chauncey consult me on this matter?"

"Father," I said gently, "I think he's afraid of you."

He actually snorted. "Nonsense," he said. "Am I an ogre?"

"No, sir."

"Of course not. And he obviously requires legal counsel. I suspect Chauncey's actual fear is having to inform his mother of what his fiancee has requested."

"I'd say that's close to the mark," I agreed.

He pondered a moment. "That young man does have a problem," he finally declared. "He's of age, of course, and can marry whomever he chooses without his mother's permission. But I can understand his not wishing to endanger his inheritance of the Smythe-Hersforth estate in toto. Any suggestions, Archy?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "Let me stall him as long as I can. A few things have turned up in my investigation that lead me to believe the question of a prenuptial agreement may become moot."

He stared at me. "Are you suggesting the young lady may prove to be unsuitable? Persona non grata, so to speak?"

"Possibly," I acknowledged. "But not so much as her father."

He nodded. "In that case I concur with your recommendation. Delay Chauncey's decision as best you can and redouble your efforts to bring this rather distasteful business to a successful conclusion."

"Yes, father," I said, resisting an impulse to tug my forelock.

I left his office and returned home for my ocean swim, then labored on my journal. I showered, dressed, attended the family cocktail hour, and departed for my dinner date with Connie Garcia.

And, you know, during all that time I do not believe there was a single moment when I ceased glooming about Marcia Hawkin, her life and her death. The things we do to each other! Sometimes I think I'd rather be a cocker spaniel or even a hamster rather than a human being. But I did not choose my species and so I must learn to deal with it. And it would be nice if I could become a nobler example of Homo sapiens. But I know better than to hope.

When I arrived at the Pelican Club that evening Connie was already standing at the bar surrounded by a ring of eager young studs.

She was wearing a jumpsuit of burgundy velvet with an industrial zipper from neck to pipik. Her long black hair swung free and oversized golden hoops dangled from her lobes.

But I knew it was mostly her warm vivacity that attracted that pack of hopefuls. Connie is a vibrant young woman with physical energy to spare and a spirit that seems continually effervescing. Add to that a roguish smile and Rabelaisian wit and you have a complete woman who, on a scale of 1 to 10, rates at least a 15.

She saw me standing there like a forlorn bumpkin, excused herself, and came bopping over to grant me a half-hug and an air kiss.

"Hiya, hon," she said cheerily. "I was early so I had a spritzer at the bar."

"And why not?" I said. "You look glorious tonight, Connie."

"You like?" she asked, twirling for my inspection. "The tush isn't too noticeable?"

"Not too," I said. "Never too."

"Let's go eat," she said. "I'm starving."

I wish I could tell you the evening was an unalloyed delight, but I must confess that dinner was something less than a joyful occasion.

It wasn't the food because chef Leroy Pettibone scored with a marvelous special of fried rabbit in a cranberry-orange sauce. And it wasn't Connie's fault because she was her usual bubbling self.

No, the fault was totally mine. I knew it and was utterly incapable of summoning up the McNally esprit. I seemed unable to utter anything but banalities-mercifully brief banalities-and I realized I was behaving like a zombie on barbiturates.

Finally Connie's chatter faded away, and she reached across the table to squeeze my hand. "Archy," she said, "what's wrong with you tonight?"

"Nothing."

"Don't shuck me, sonny boy," she said angrily. "I know you too well. Is it because I've been dating other men, including your close friends?"

"Of course not. Positively not. We agreed that we can see whomever we please."

"Then what is it?"

I never ever talk to anyone but my father and Sgt. Al Rogoff about details of my investigations. I mean I head the Department of Discreet Inquiries at McNally Son, and how discreet can they be if I blab? No, I am a closemouthed lad and fully intend to remain so.

But at that moment I had to tell someone. I think it was because I needed to share the awful burden. I could understand why Mrs. Folsby had to tell me. It was just too much for one person to bear alone.

"Connie," I said, "I know you love to gossip and so do I. I want to tell you something. I need to tell you, but I want your cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die promise that you won't repeat it to anyone."

"Archy," she said, suddenly solemn, "do you trust me? I mean really trust me?"

"Of course I do."

"Then I swear to you that whatever you tell me will go no farther."

I nodded. "I believe you," I said, and I meant it. "Well, you've heard about Marcia Hawkin's death, haven't you?"