Roarke sat, cozily to Eve's mind, beside Areena in the sitting area on the right, swirling a snifter of brandy. His gaze; that lightning-strike blue, shifted to his wife's face, gleamed there, and reminded her of the first time she'd seen him, face-to-face.

He hadn't been baby-sitting a murder suspect then. He'd been one.

His lips curved in a lazy, confident smile. "Hello, Peabody," he said, but his eyes remained on Eve's face.

"I have a few more questions for you, Miss Mansfield."

Areena blinked up at Eve, fluttered her hands. "Oh, but I thought we were finished for the evening. Roarke's just arranged my transportation back to my penthouse."

"The transpo can wait. Record on, Peabody. Do you need me to refresh you on your rights and obligations as pertains to this investigation, Miss Mansfield?"

"I – " The fluttering hand landed on her throat, rested there. "No. I just don't know what else I can tell you."

"Recognize this?" Eve tossed the sealed prop knife onto the table between them.

"It looks like…" Her hand, still restless, reached out, then fisted, drew back. "It's the dummy knife. It's the prop that should have been on the set when… Oh, God. Where did you find it?"

"In your dressing room, buried in red roses."

"No. No." Very slowly, Areena shook her head from side to side. She crossed her arms over her breasts, fingers digging into her shoulders. "That's not possible."

If it was an act, Eve mused, it was damn good. The eyes were glazed, the lips and fingers trembled. "It's not only possible, it's fact. How did it get there?"

"I don't know. I tell you, I don't know." In a sudden spurt of energy, Areena leaped to her feet. Her eyes weren't glazed now, but wild and wheeling. "Someone put it there. Whoever switched the knives put it there. They want me to be blamed for Richard. They want me to suffer for it. Wasn't it enough, God, wasn't it enough that I killed him?"

She held out her hand, a Lady Macbeth, staring at blood already washed away.

"Why?" Eve's voice was cold and flat. "Why not just toss the prop away, into a corner, a recycling bin. Why would anyone hide it in your dressing room?"

"I can't think… who would hate me so much. And Richard…" Tears shimmered, fell gorgeously as she turned. "Roarke. You know me. Please, help me. Tell her I couldn't do this terrible thing."

"Whatever the answers are, she'll find them." He rose, letting her come into his arms to weep as he watched his wife over her head. "You can be sure of it. Can't she, Lieutenant?"

"Are you her representative?" Eve snapped back and earned a lifted brow.

"Who, other than yourself, has access to your dressing room, Miss Mansfield?"

"I don't know. Anyone, really, in the cast and crew. I don't keep it locked. It's inconvenient." With her head still resting on Roarke's shoulder, she drew steadying breaths.

"Who sent you the red roses? And who brought them into the room?"

"I don't know. There were so many flowers. My dresser took the cards. She would have marked the type on each. One of the gofers brought some of the deliveries in. People were in and out up till thirty minutes before curtain. That's when I cut off visitors so I could prepare myself."

"You were back in your dressing room after your initial scene and again for costume changes throughout the play."

"That's right." Calmer, Areena drew back from Roarke, faced Eve. "I have five costume changes. My dresser was with me. She was in the dressing room with me each time."

Eve drew out her memo. "Your dresser's name?"

"Tricia. Tricia Beets. She'll tell you I didn't hide the prop. She'll tell you. Ask her."

"I'll do that. My aide will see you back to your penthouse."

"I can go?"

"For the moment. I'll be in touch. Record off, Peabody. See Miss Mansfield back to her home."

"Yes, sir."

Areena grabbed the coat she'd draped over the arm of the sofa, passed it to Roarke in a way Eve had to appreciate. So female, so smoothly confident a man would be right there to wrap her up warm.

"I want you to catch who did this, Lieutenant Dallas. I want that very much. And even then, even when whoever arranged for this to happen is punished, I'll always know it was my hand that caused it. I'll always know that."

She reached back, touched the back of Roarke's hand with her fingers. "Thank you, Roarke. I couldn't have gotten through tonight without you."

"Get some rest, Areena."

"I hope I can." Head bowed, she walked out with Peabody trailing sturdily behind.

Frowning, Eve picked up the evidence bag, put it in her field kit. "She'd like to rectify the fact that you didn't sleep with her."

"Do you think so?"

The faint trace of amusement in his voice was just enough to put her back up. "And you just lap that up, don't you?"

"Men are pigs." He stepped forward, brushed his fingers over her cheek. "Jealous, darling Eve?"

"If I was jealous of every woman you've had sex with, compounded by every woman who wishes you did or would, I'd spend my life green."

She started to turn, shoved at his hand when he grabbed her arm. "Hands off."

"I don't think so." To prove it, he took her other arm, pulled her firmly against him. The humor was in his face and so, damn him, was a tenderness she had no defense against. "I love you, Eve."

"Yeah, yeah."

He laughed, leaned down, and bit her bottom lip gently. "You romantic fool."

"You know your trouble, ace?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

"You're a walking orgasm." She had the pleasure of seeing his eyes widen.

"I don't believe that's entirely flattering."

"It wasn't meant to be." It was very rare to sneak under that slick polish and hit a nerve, she thought. Which was why she enjoyed it so much. "I'm going to talk to Mansfield 's dresser, see if she confirms the story. Then I'm done here for tonight. I can start some background runs on the way home."

He retrieved his coat and hers, and his equilibrium. "I believe you're going to be too busy to do background runs on the way home."

"Doing what?"

He held her coat up before she could take it and shrug into it herself. Rolling her eyes, she turned, stuck her arms in the sleeves. Then let out a choked sound when he whispered a particularly imaginative suggestion in her ear.

"You can't do that in the back of a limo."

"Want to bet?"

"Twenty."

He took her hand to lead her out. "Done."

She lost, but it was money well spent.

"If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly."

Well, it is done, done well and done quickly. And I dare quote from the Scottish play as I sit alone. A murderer. Or, as Christine Vole was in our clever play, am I but an executioner?

It's foolish of me to record my thoughts. But those thoughts are so loud, so huge, so brilliantly colored I wonder the world can't see them bursting out of my head. I think this speaking aloud where no one can hear might quiet them. Those thoughts must be silenced, must be buried. This is a precarious time. I must steel my nerve.

The risks were weighed before the deed was done, but how was I to know, how could I have imagined what it would be like to see him dead and bleeding center stage? So still. He lay so still in the white wash of lights.

It's best not to think of it.

It's time now to think of myself. To be cautious, to be clever. To be calm. There were no mistakes made. There must be none now. I will keep my thoughts quiet, tucked deep inside my heart.

Though they want to scream out in jubilation.

Richard Draco is dead.