"You did handle it perfectly," he said. "Locking them in. Thank you for not damaging them."

"You're welcome," I said. I'd turned phone solicitors down with a kinder tone.

Robin squeezed my hand again.

"It's okay, Bill," she said. "We're fine."

Moreland said, "An unforgivable lapse. I'm always so careful- I'll put double locks on the insectarium immediately. And door seals. We'll get working on it right now- Gladys, call Ramon and Carl Sleet, apologize for waking them up, and tell them I've got a job for them. Triple overtime pay. Tell Carl to bring the Swiss drill I gave him for Christmas."

Gladys rushed out.

Moreland looked at the box and rubbed the oiled wood. "Better be getting these fellows back." He hurried to the door and nearly collided with Jo Picker as she padded in, wearing robe and slippers, rubbing her eyes.

"Is everything… okay?" Her voice was thick. She coughed to clear it.

"Just a little mishap," said Moreland.

She frowned. Her eyes were unfocused.

"Took something… to sleep… did I hear someone scream?"

"I did," said Robin. "There were some bugs in the bathroom."

"Bugs?"

The roaches hissed and her eyes widened.

"Go back to sleep, dear," said Moreland, guiding her out. "Everything's been taken care of. Everything's fine."

When we were alone, we let Spike out and he raced around the room, circling. Sniffing near the bathroom before charging in head down.

"The dog food goes downstairs tomorrow," said Robin.

Then she got up suddenly, pulled back the bedcovers, looked underneath the box spring, and then stood. Smiling sheepishly.

"Just being careful," she said.

"Are you going to be able to sleep?" I said.

"Hope so. How about you?"

"My heart's down to two hundred beats a minute."

She sighed. Started laughing and couldn't stop.

I wanted to join in but couldn't manage more than a taut smile.

"Our little bit of New York," she finally said. "Manhattan tenement in our island hideaway."

"Those things could mug New York roaches."

"I know." She put my hand on her breast. "How many beats?"

"Hmm," I said. "Hard to tell. I need to count for a long time."

More laughter. "God, the way I shrieked. Like one of those horror movies."

Her forehead was moist, curls sticking to it. I brushed them away, kissed her brow, the tip of her nose.

"So how long do we stay in bug-land?" I said.

"You want to leave?"

"Plane crash, unsolved murder, the zombie base, some fairly uncongenial people. Now this."

"Don't leave on my account. I can't tell you I won't freak out if the same thing happens again, but I'm okay, now. Ms. Adaptable. I pride myself on it."

"Sure," I said, "but sometimes it's nice not having to adapt."

"True… Maybe I'm nuts but I still like it here. Maybe it's my hand feeling better- a lot better, actually. Or even the fact this may be our last chance to experience Aruk before the Navy turns it into a bomb yard or something. Even Bill- he's unique, Aruk is unique."

She held my face and looked into my eyes. "I guess what I'm saying, Alex, is I don't want to be back in L.A. next week, dealing with the house or some business hassle, and start thinking back with regrets."

I didn't answer.

"Am I making sense, doctor?"

I touched my nose to hers. Curled my lip. Bared my teeth.

Hissed.

She jumped up. Pounded my shoulder. "Oh! Maybe I should have Spike sleep in the bed and put you in the crate."

Lights out.

A few self-conscious jokes about creepy-crawlies and she was sleeping.

I lay awake.

Trying to picture the roaches trekking all the way from the insectarium to our suite… marching in unison? The idea was cartoonish.

And even if the dog food had attracted them, why hadn't they stayed in the sitting room, near the bag?

Roaches were supposed to be smart, as bugs went. Why not head for an easier meal- the fruit from the orchard?

Instead, they'd taken a circuitous journey, scampering up the gravel paths, across the lawn, into the house somehow. Bypassing Gladys's kitchen. Up the stairs. Under our door.

All because of a sealed sack of kibble?

Despite Moreland's claim, the bathroom door seemed too snug to let them in or out. Had we left it open before leaving for dinner at the base?

Robin always left the bathroom door closed. Sometimes I didn't… Which of us had last used the lav?

Why hadn't they come running out when we arrived home? Or at least hissed in alarm?

An alternative scenario: they'd been placed in the bathroom and shut in.

Someone up to mischief during the dinner at Stanton. The house empty. Someone seizing the opportunity to send us a message: Go away.

But who and why?

Who had the opportunity?

Ben was the obvious choice, because he had access to the insectarium.

He'd said his evening was full, between fatherhood and a hibachi dinner with Claire.

Had he come back?

But why? Apart from the remark about natural rhythm, he'd shown no sign of hostility toward us. On the contrary. He'd gone out of his way to make us feel welcome.

Out of obligation to Moreland?

Were his own feelings something else?

I thought about it for a while, but it just didn't make sense.

Someone else on the staff?

Cheryl?

Too dull to be that calculating, and once again, what was her motive? Plus, she usually left after dinner, and no meal had been served tonight.

Gladys? Same lack of motive, and the idea of her purloining roaches seemed equally ludicrous.

There had to be at least a dozen groundskeepers and gardeners who came and went, but why would they resent us?

Unless the message had been meant for Moreland.

My surmise about his attitude of noblesse oblige and the resentment it might have generated in the villagers could be right on target.

The good doctor less than universally loved? His guests seen as colonial interlopers?

If so, it could be anyone.

Paranoia, Delaware. The guy had kept thousands of bugs for years, four had gotten out because he was old and absentminded and had forgotten to put a lid on tight.

Spacey, just as Milo had said.

Not a comforting thought, considering the thousands of bugs, but I supposed he'd be especially careful now.

I tried to empty my head and sleep. Thought of the way Jo Picker had come in: drowsy, asking if someone had screamed.

Robin's scream had sounded a full ten minutes before.

Why the delay?

The sleeping pill slowing her responses?

Or no need to hurry because she knew?

And she'd been alone upstairs all evening.

Paranoia run amok. What reason would a grieving widow have for malicious mischief?

She'd said she was squeamish about insects, had refused even to enter the bug zoo.

And there was no animosity between us. Robin had been especially kind to her… Even if she was a fiend, how could she have gained access to our room?

Her own room key- the lock similar to ours?

Or a simple pick. Most bedroom locks weren't designed for security. Ours back home could be popped with a screwdriver.

I lay there and listened for sounds through the wall.

Nothing.

What did I expect to hear, the click of her keyboard? Widow's wails?

I shifted position and the mattress rocked, but Robin didn't budge.

Teachers' voices from many years ago filtered through my brain.

Alexander is a very bright little boy, but he does tend to daydream.

Is something wrong at home, Mrs. Delaware? Alexander has seemed rather distracted lately.