The next day a helpful clerk at a nearby hardware store sold Sigrid paint remover, sandpaper and steel wool and gave her enough enthusiastic (and free) advice to make her succumb to the refinishing bug. The mindless activity was perfect for unwinding, yet physical enough to compensate for those days when she'd had to shuffle papers for eight hours. As she scraped and sanded and stripped away the old paint, she was even more delighted by the chair. Especially when judicious applications of the paint remover revealed that the lions' eyes were inset with clear green glass marbles.

She had no idea what wood the chair was made of, knowing only that it was close-grained and had a mellow tone. Beneath the brittle brown leather she'd found horsehair and cotton padding, which the hardware-store clerk advised her to try to salvage since it was probably the original. In her mind's eye she pictured the chair waxed to a soft gleam. She hadn't quite decided on new fabric, but moss-green velvet kept floating into that mental picture.

What she would do with the damn thing when she finished it, she hadn't the least idea. Nor did she want to look that far ahead. For the time being, all she cared about was the pleasure she derived from freeing the wood of its coat of ugly brown paint.

But somehow she couldn't settle into it this evening. Her earlier restlessness had returned. At last she threw down the sandpaper and went into her bedroom to sit cross-legged in the middle of her bed, an elbow on each leg, her chin supported by her cupped hands. From early childhood this had been her soul-searching position, and she still reverted to it when troubled.

So what was the matter? Was it a residue from last night? Was she in fact jealous of Cousin Hilda after all? Examined psyche answered no. Then did she regret not having a Chuck to keep promises to as did Detective Tildon? It was a relief to face this squarely; an even greater relief after honest examination to know she was not getting broody about children.

So what was left? Work, of course. Duckett's continued antagonism and that blasted interview first thing in the morning. Better make a special effort in clothes tomorrow in case that editor brought along a camera. As for her case loads, all were well in hand except for Riley Quinn's death.

If only there were some way to ascertain how the killer had known for sure which cup the deputy chairman would take. That was the key. Unless Keppler did it, in which case knowledge was a simple matter of a capital W on the lid. But if it were Keppler, what was her reason for wanting Quinn dead? Any of the others, even Vance with his resentment of art historians or Simpson with his promotion had more motive than the pretty young secretary. And there was Mike Szabo scheming for Karoly's paintings and Harris's anger about his failure.

Opportunity without plausible motive; motives with provable opportunity. Round and round it went, and yet she couldn't help feeling that somewhere in the past two days something she'd heard or seen or been told held the answer. She started with Harley Harris and worked her way up to Professor Simpson and then back down to Harris again without spotting it.

If Harris could be believed, there was nothing unusual about the positioning of the cups; but the poison had been in

Quinn's cup and not Nauman's. Fantastic suppositions danced through her mind: could Riley Quinn have been a secret sugar addict? Could he have kept extra packets of sugar in his desk drawer to add to his already sweetened coffee, and could the poisoner have doctored the packets, substituting potassium dichromate? But the chemical was orange, dammit! Quinn would have noticed orange sugar. Unless he were color-blind?

Oh, God, a color-blind art critic! And she was the one who'd preached simplicity to Tillie.

All right, then, what's simplest?

That the killer had been a regular at the morning coffee breaks.

Agreed.

That he had noticed whether Quinn habitually went for the left or right cup.

Agreed.

That he (not forgetting that 'he' could be Ross or Keppler) had been in the office when Quinn picked up the cup so that he could-a la Tillie's first theory-knock over the tray before Nauman arrived if Quinn picked the wrong cup. (And it might be worthwhile to ask if the tray had been upset in the recent past.)

So!

She concentrated on those three points. If logic served, Harley Harris and Mike Szabo were again eliminated on the first two points alone, and even without the librarian's alibi David Wade was eliminated by the third point. As was Professor Simpson? By all accounts he hadn't entered the room until after Quinn had gone through to the inner office. So who did that leave in position to see precisely which cup Quinn took?

She tried to visualize Sandy Keppler's large office, collating all their statements. When Quinn chose the fatal cup, Sandy had been at her desk, Andrea Ross and Piers Leyden had stood talking by the mail rack. Vance had been waiting by the file cabinets to corner Nauman for a discussion of printing presses, and Saxer-Irritably she tried to place Jake Saxer in the room and failed.

Another point to check on.

Keppler, Ross, Leyden, Vance and Saxer. Could any of these be eliminated? Tentatively she removed Lemuel Vance's name. He seemed to have a hot temper,s o wouldn't poison be too calculated? Especially since his strongest grudge against Quinn seemed to be an annual irritation about budget priorities or the usual friction between artist and art critic.

And still no feasible motive for Sandy Keppler. Revenge was a strong motive for Ross, plus getting her promotion after all, since Quinn's death opened up another professorship. Saxer kept his stakes in Quinn's book, and Piers Leyden kept his professional reputation safe from Quinn's vitriolic criticism. She and Tillie would have to hammer at those four until one of them cracked, or someone remembered a previously overlooked point. Which one, though?

When the telephone rang, she was so tired of the squirrel cage her mind had become that she welcomed its interruption.

"Miss Harald? This is Roman Tramegra. I do hope I'm not disturbing you?"

Sigrid reassured him.

"I tried to call you earlier-last-minute invitations are so gauche, don't you think-but you weren't in, so I'll just have to be gauche anyhow."

"Not at all," Sigrid murmured, a trifle bewildered. Tramegra's deep bass voice was so at variance with the frivolous nature of his remarks that she had trouble reconciling the two.

"I've felt such a Nosy Parker all day, moving your mother's things out of the way, and I still can't find everything. I say, do you suppose I could bribe you into coming over if I told you I have a wonderful lasagna in the oven? It's real mozzarella. I smuggled a ball in from Italy last night-you mustn't report me-the customs inspector thought it was some sort of soap on a rope for the shower. They're quite thick. Do say you'll come."

Sigrid weighed the invitation and decided that Mr. Tramegra was exactly what she needed to take her mind off work. "It's kind of you to ask me. Lasagna sounds a lot better than the frozen potpie I was going to thaw."

"Now don't bother to change," he boomed. "Just come as you are. I'm not dressing, and the lasagna'll be out of the oven in twenty-five minutes."

Sigrid promised she would be there in time. She brushed out her long dark hair and, instead of rebraiding it, let it hang loose down her back, secured only by a white scarf. She kept the jeans but exchanged a fresh blue and white shirt for the frayed chambray, which had paint-remover stains down its front. In less than five minutes after Tramegra's call she had gathered up her black shoulder bag and the Life article that she'd borrowed from Anne's files and was on her way.