His round blue eyes went from me, up to Robin, over to Barrett, and back again. "Isn't this fascinating" said Detective Arthur Smith. It was a moment pregnant with emotions, but those emotions were so snarled up it would have been hard to tease them apart.

If I just explain that my history with Arthur is long and complicated, it will spare us all a lot of tedium.

I hadn't seen Arthur (to speak to) in almost two years; of course, in a town the size of Lawrenceton, it would be hard to avoid glimpses of him, and I hadn't particularly been trying to do that.

Arthur was somewhat burlier than he had been in the days when we'd dated, and his hair was a little thinner, it seemed to me. He was still a solid block of a man, with hard blue eyes and curly pale hair. These past few months I'd been so far out of the loop that I realized I didn't even know if Lynn (Arthur's ex) and their little girl were still living in town.

"Who is this?" he asked me, as casually as if we'd had coffee together the hour before. He was pointing at my stepson.

"This is Barrett Bartell, Martin's son. He found her."

Arthur squatted down in front of Barrett. Barrett met his eyes. I could tell Barrett was enough his father's son to dislike Arthur on sight - but Barrett was involved in a murder now, and couldn't afford such an emotion. I squeezed his arm to warn him. Barrett was definitely snapping back into his personality. He yanked away from me, and he didn't do it subtly.

I tried not to feel hurt, but it didn't work. I felt mostly... tired, I guess. I struggled to rise above it. Martin would want me to help Barrett, whether Barrett wanted to be helped or not.

"What brought you to Miss Shaw's trailer this morning?" Arthur said. His voice didn't sound particularly friendly.

"I needed to talk to her about..." And then Barrett stopped in mid-sentence.

"About what?"

He looked like he'd just seen the Ghost of You Better Shut Your Mouth over Arthur's shoulder, and it had shaken its finger at him.

"He was going to talk to Celia about the implications of their having spent the night together," Robin said, his face absolutely expressionless. I had no idea what he was thinking or how he was feeling. Somehow he maintained his composure and straightened his slumped shoulders, his face now in profile to me and once more under guard. It was a "man" thing to do, I thought wryly. But I admired him for holding on to his personality under the pressure of the shock and grief - and anger - he must be feeling. Even if he and Celia were no longer involved, it had to sting that she had so quickly found someone else to fill her bed.

Will Weir stepped over to Robin and put a hand on his shoulder. For a second the two men embraced, and if ever I had seen two miserable people, this was the occasion. Then they let each other go, and I was glad Robin had someone to comfort him, someone who'd known the dead girl well.

"Why are you here?" Arthur asked me. I had the feeling he'd said it more than once.

"Yeah, Mom," Barrett said jeeringly. He'd recovered far more quickly than I'd hoped he would. His defenses were firmly back in place. "You come to check up on me? I thought you'd had enough of us movie people last night."

Martin had put up with a lot from Barrett, but if he'd heard Barrett speak to me this way, he would've knocked his son from here to kingdom come. I knew that as well as I knew my own name; and Barrett knew it, too. I met his eyes to see if there was any shame lurking there. There was, but it wasn't enough.

The guilt-engendered protective feeling I'd had for the young man - which I likened to temporary insanity -  dropped right off my shoulders. Inside my head, I informed Martin that his son was just going to have to fend for himself. "And it's about damn time," I muttered, telling Martin a posthumous home truth.

"What?" Arthur looked startled, as well he might.

"I had hoped," I said slowly, "that you would make your father proud." Barrett looked as if I'd kicked him in the jewels. "Surely, Barrett, you're thinking more about this poor, dead young woman than you are about your little personal issues with me." I turned my back on Martin's son. I felt thirty years older than Barrett, rather than ten.

I decided to pretend he wasn't there. "Angel's car wouldn't start, so I brought her to work today," I explained to Arthur, who'd been listening to my exchange with Barrett with great attention. "She wanted me to meet her friend, the pretty woman with all the earrings, over there." I inclined my head in Carolina's direction. "Then, Celia's friend Meredith came to get me, to tell me Celia wanted to apologize for her behavior last night."

"What behavior?" Arthur asked, which was a reasonable question. But I didn't want to talk about my vulnerability to Celia's particular sort of - well, maybe "cruelty" was too severe a word - she'd used me ... I got mad all over again, and lost my train of thought entirely.

"What did Celia Shaw do last night?" Arthur said gently. He had prompted me without being asked, an unpleasant reminder of how well he knew me. He reached out as if he were going to take my hand, and then changed the movement to a hair-smoothing gesture.

I cinched up my pride. "She invited me to dinner so she could observe my mannerisms," I said. I cut my eyes sideways to see if Barrett was going to comment, but he'd turned away.

"How did you find the deceased this morning?" Arthur asked. He'd gotten out his little notebook and the cheap Bic pen he preferred. He was still using the same model.

Didn't make any difference if he lost it, he'd always told me.

"While I was talking to Meredith, I saw Barrett knock at the trailer door, open it, and go in. He came out looking sick." I shrugged, letting him know that was that. "Other people had come up to the trailer earlier and talked to her."

"I'll talk to you later, Roe," he said. "You wait over there." He pointed to one of the folding chairs on the porch of the makeup trailer. I didn't wait for a second offer. I sat in the chair and crossed my legs and took a few deep breaths. I was glad I'd worn a dress, a cool dress. The sun was coming up and the touch of it on my skin was beginning to show that little kiss of ferocity that said the temperature was going to reach the eighties. October is truly unpredictable in the South. I slid out of my sweater.

I got out my own cell phone and called the library to explain why I'd be late. Sam's assistant, Patricia Bledsoe, was at her desk, and as correct as ever. What a pain in the patootie that woman was, I thought absently, and then felt embarrassed at myself. Since when had dressing and speaking correctly, and acting professional, been a pain? "I'll try to be in this afternoon," I told Patricia and snapped my phone shut.

Well, it was a pain. She was a pain. And she was hiding something, my less correct self insisted on muttering to my nicer, more charitable persona. The last thing in the world Patricia Bledsoe would want was her Jerome hanging around on a movie set. That whole conversation had been fishy.

"I should have known not to bring you this morning," a familiar voice said dryly, and Angel folded her long legs to sit beside my chair.

"It's not my fault stuff happens. Celia Shaw's dead," I said.

"I heard tell."

"I don't think it was a natural death. Unless she had fits or something. But then, someone whacked her with the Emmy."

"Ummm."

"Barrett found the body."

"Time Barrett grew up."

"I bet Barrett wouldn't be such a ..." I groped for a nice way to say it.

"Asshole," Angel supplied.

"Asshole, if Martin had stayed with Barrett's mother." Sometimes the blunt term fits the bill best.

"I bet not." Angel began braiding her hair, her slim muscular arms stretched back behind her head. "I bet he would've been worse. Martin was miserable with his first wife. Named Cindy, right? Shelby met her - long, long time ago. I know you got to know her a little last winter, but I think she must have mellowed out by then." Angel secured her braid with an elastic band.

"So it's not just me who thinks Barrett is hard to deal with?" I felt a little better.

"Oh, no." Angel was matter-of-fact. "Shelby, little as he knows him, can't stand to see that boy coming. And he is still a boy, when he should be a man."

It was so refreshing to have a conversation with someone who agreed with me, and wouldn't think the less of me for detesting my stepson. I began to feel a few degrees less tense. Then I thought of the crumpled body just a few yards away, and realized that it was pretty darn likely someone had killed Celia Shaw while I was sitting in this very chair. I shuddered, despite the gathering heat.

"Wonder what this'll do to the movie schedule." Angel took a sip from a bottle of water she'd snagged from the catering table.

"They won't cancel, surely?"

"No, they'll just hire someone else, I figure."

"Meredith Askew?"

"That would be unusual," Angel said. "I think they'll hire someone just about Celia's level, and Celia was several steps higher on the food chain than Meredith." I forgot, all too often, that Angel had an eclectic background that included considerable knowledge of the movie world. She was the most down-to-earth person I'd ever met, and I admired her many abilities immensely. And I would much rather think about that than the dent in Celia Shaw's forehead.

"Meredith's going to hope she'll be moved up," Angel went on, spotting the young woman in the crowd, making the most of the "friend of the deceased" role. "But I doubt it."

I thought about that a little. "So, someone's going to be mighty happy about Celia dying."

Angel nodded. "But no telling who that is, though there may have been some other woman who's been on the back burner the whole time, some woman we don't know about. Carolina told me that Celia had been acting strange for the few days they'd been here."

"Robin thought so, too," I said after a moment. I had seen the perplexity on his face while he observed his former flame. I remembered the previous morning, when it had seemed for all the world as though Celia was going to slap the director.

"So that's Robin Crusoe, over there?" Angel had come to Lawrenceton after Robin left. She gestured with one bony finger, and I nodded, glad she'd spotted him for me.

Robin looked haggard, understandably enough, since he'd just discovered his former flame had been murdered, and that she'd spent the night before her death with another man. He'd put on dark glasses and was talking to a middle-aged woman with gray-streaked black hair. Robin pushed his fingers up under his glasses, and I knew he was brushing away tears. I pushed my own glasses up on my nose.

"You and him were tight?"

"Kind of," I said, feeling unaccountably shy about it. "But we're talking years ago. Right before I dated Arthur Smith." I looked down at my hands, and began twisting my wedding band around on the finger it no longer fit.

Angel raised a blond eyebrow. "So, what happened with Robin?"

"I was really fond of him. I think he was fond of me, too. But when he decided to write a book about the murders, and I realized there was no way he could leave me out of the book, I felt pretty unhappy about it. And when he went to Hollywood with his agent to push the book proposal, our connection just kind of tapered off."

"He call you?"

"Oh... yeah. At first."

"When did he quit?"

"When I told him I was marrying Martin."

"And then he moved on to that Celia Shaw?"

"That's what the gossip magazines said. I think they had pretty much called it quits by the time they got here."

"So he moved from the real you to the play you." Angel looked amused at my wince. After a second of considering that unnerving idea, I shrugged.

We fell silent and watched the unfolding panorama together. Joel Park Brooks, shaved head flashing in the sun, was being attended by paramedics, by Mark, and by several other people whose names and functions I had not yet learned. He seemed to feel that the FBI should be brought in to investigate the death of an important actress like Celia Shaw. The Hollywood dispensation, I guess.

Robin had found a chair and sunk down onto it, his hands on his knees, lost in thought. I wondered if I should go to him.

Meredith Askew, still looking properly distraught, was resting her face on the shoulder of Chip Brodnax, the tall young man who was portraying Robin. His back was to me, so I had a good view of Meredith's face. As I watched, I saw her expression change to one of intense speculation. She was staring into the distance, unaware that anyone was observing her. As if she'd turned to me and spoken her thoughts out loud, I could tell that she was wondering if she had a chance of replacing Celia in the main role.

This was depressing. If anyone in this crowd (besides possibly Robin) was simply grieving for Celia Shaw, I could see no sign of it.

"Let's us go," I suggested to Angel.

"Won't the police get us?"

"I have a feeling I can get around that."

I made my way through the crowd to Arthur, who was issuing instructions to three other cops. I waited until he'd finished speaking, and as soon as they scattered to do his bidding, I knew he would turn to me.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"Can Angel and I go home?"

"Will you stay at your house until I come later? Will you not talk to anyone else?"

"I promise."

"Okay, then. You and Angel can go."

"Thanks." I tried to dredge up a smile for him, but I couldn't.

I trudged back to Angel and gave her the thumbs-up. We made our way to my car and climbed back in. Though it was only nine o'clock, it seemed like a lifetime since we'd gotten to the set. The day was getting hotter by the minute. The car was stuffy. The streets around the movie site were almost chaotic; I had never in my life seen traffic this disordered in Lawrenceton. I figured all the police had been grabbed off traffic control and shifted to the murder scene. It wouldn't take the news crews long to get there, especially with all the busy cell phones on the set. I was willing to bet CNN already knew about it, had maybe aired a bulletin, if Celia rated that high.

I decided not to turn on the radio. I didn't want to hear anything about the murder, I didn't want to listen to any music, I didn't want to know the weather report. I just wanted to get out of here. With Angel helping me avoid cars and people, all going places they shouldn't go, I finally drove out of the area. I made a huge effort to obey every traffic rule. I was so grateful to Arthur for letting us leave, I was determined to be no trouble at all.

Once I got away from the town center, traffic thinned out dramatically. I took the county highway that led northeast out of town, past the very nice suburb where my mother and her husband live. My house is about a mile out of town, on a road that turns into farms pretty much right after it leaves the city limits.

The house waited for me, silent and dim, perfectly clean.

Angel hadn't been out to the house in a while. She looked around, a curious expression on her narrow face. She moved down the hall with her quiet grace, looking from side to side like a cat exploring unfamiliar territory.

"Geez," she said finally, "I want to kick the walls just to make a scuff mark. How can you live like this?"

"I don't know how to live any other way," I said. And it was the first time that way struck me as odd. I stood in the middle of the long hall that runs from the front door and past the stairs down to a closet door, looked to the left into the formal living room, and I felt weirdly isolated. I stood, in my orange knit dress, feeling the coolness of the house, the shadows cast by the bright morning sun streaming in the windows, the sudden lack of contrast when clouds floated across the sun. I felt time passing.

"Do you ever have company?" she asked.

"No. At least, very seldom. But you know," I said, pondering this idea through, "that's not actually my fault. People don't come to see me. Even when I say, 'Come by and see me,' they don't."

"You need to move back into town," Angel said, her voice flat and definite.

I gaped at her. "Like that would be easy! Like moving isn't incredibly stressful!"

She cocked her head, her blond braid trailing to one side.

"Is living like this relaxing? This place is a tomb."

I stared at her, shocked.

She was absolutely right.

It was the second revelatory moment I'd had in two days.

"I would help," she offered. "I could bring Joan's playpen and set it up, and she'd be good for a while."

"But this house," I said, feeling my tears spring up. "I was so happy here. Martin bought it for me."

"You think Martin would like you being here by yourself? You think Martin would ever live in a place this... dead?"

That cut me to the quick. Martin had surrounded himself with energy, with projects, with life. I felt instantly that I had failed him, yet again.

"You didn't die with Martin," Angel said brutally.

I gasped in surprise at the way her thought chimed in on what I was thinking. "This house has so many memories," I said feebly.

"You have the memories inside you. This house is stifling you. It's too big, it's out of the way, and it's... unwelcoming."

"Enough," I said.

Wisely, Angel did keep silent. We went to the kitchen, and I got out two glasses and filled them with ice while Angel got the pitcher of tea out of the refrigerator. Angel poured, and I put a package of Sweet 'N Low in mine.

In a desperate way, it hurt to even consider leaving this house. I had sure had enough hurting. But, with very little inner debate, I found I was thinking that Angel was right.

To effect such a change seemed incredibly daunting. I began to break it down into steps.

I would have to find a house in town. That would be easy, with a mother in real estate.

I'd have to have everything in this house packed and ready to move. I could afford to have that done for me.

I would have to sell this house. Well, part of keeping the house perfect was having its contents pared down to the minimum. This house was ready to show, as it was. With all the improvements I'd made, I had no doubt it would find a buyer sooner or later.

I'd have to pay someone to move all the furniture and boxes to the new house. So, the biggest exertion would be unpacking in the new house.

When I'd first met Angel and Shelby, they'd been hired by Martin to help bring this house to renovated life. They'd helped make the move into the house as smooth and painless as such a major upheaval could be. Now, Angel was offering to help me move out of the house. Somehow, tying the two events together made me cry. In the past year, I'd become used to sudden outbreaks of tears, but it startled Angel. I had to wave a reassuring hand at her, to let her know I was going to be all right. She eyed me doubtfully, but she relaxed when she realized she didn't have to figure out how to comfort me.

She indicated the phone and raised her eyebrows, and I nodded. Shelby now had his own office at Pan-Am Agra, and she was busy relating the events of the morning to him as I strolled out of the room and across the hall into the den to get a Kleenex. I kicked off my sandals, put my ice-tinkling glass on the small table by my current book. I folded my legs under me as I settled in the large leather armchair that had been Martin's favorite. I hadn't slept well the night before, and the day so far had been exhausting. When the air-conditioning came on again, with its relaxing drone, it seemed only natural to lay my head against the wing of the chair and close my eyes.