The blonde frowned. “You and Brad didn’t look like you were having fun tonight.”

It might have been a non sequitur. It wasn’t. She stared at the younger woman with anxious, worried eyes.

Eleanor fumbled with the clasp of her purse, lifted out a lipstick. Her hand shook. She stared at the tube, abruptly thrust it back into her purse. Did she fear that her hand was shaking too badly to be able even to dab color to her lips? She came to her feet, stared at Joan with hollow eyes. “Brad? Oh, it’s nothing to do with him. I’m afraid I’m getting a migraine. I’ll ask him to take me home.” She moved toward the door.

Joan stepped in front of her. “Are you sure? Look”-her tone was awkward-“if there’s anything we can do. If you’d like to come home with us-”

Eleanor gave a trill of ragged laughter. “I’m all right. I promise. It’s just…” She gripped Joan’s arm. “Please, don’t say anything to anyone. It would be dreadful for me. Please. You’ve got to promise me.”

“Don’t go with Brad. Come home with us. Or let me call the police.”

Eleanor dropped Joan’s arm. “The police? Oh, my God. Never. You don’t understand. Everything’s okay. I swear it is. I just can’t think straight when I have a headache. You’ve misunderstood. Brad would never… No. It isn’t like that at all.” She whirled away.

Joan took a step after her, but as the door closed, she stopped with a frown and shook her head. She’d tried to help, and her help had been refused. She had no real option. If she called the police, they would need more than her assumptions.

However, there might be another way to forestall abuse.

In an instant, I was walking alongside Eleanor. She moved steadily, managing strained smiles to acquaintances. I wondered if she realized that her distress was obvious.

Her steps grew slower as she approached the terrace, then, with a quick-drawn breath, chin held high, she curved around a cluster of tables.

An athletic young man stood near a splashing fountain. I was reminded of a young Van Johnson, a broad, freckled, all-American face topped by reddish gold hair. Instead of disingenuous charm and good humor, however, this face was set and hard, blue eyes burning with anger.

She stopped a few feet away. “I need to go home. I have a headache.”

“Is that what you’ve been telling everyone?”

She folded her arms, looked frightened.

“Dammit, stop that. If anyone sees you like that-”

Shoes clicked on the terrace. Joan strode up to them. She stopped and gave Brad an uncompromising look. “I’m sorry Eleanor isn’t feeling well. Perhaps it would be a good night for her to come home with us. I’ve had migraines. They’re hellish.”

Brad flushed. “She’ll be all right.”

The chunky blonde stared at him. “I’ll call tomorrow. I’m sure everything will be all right. Now.”

I had underestimated Joan. Her commanding stare warned him.

Brad flashed a black look at Eleanor. “If you’re ready.” His tone was clipped.

Eleanor avoided looking at Joan as they walked past.

MY first surprise was when they reached a Mercedes coupe and she clicked to unlock the car and slid into the driver’s seat.

He slid into the passenger seat and stared glumly forward as she expertly maneuvered the small car and whipped out of the parking lot.

She drove with the sunroof open, the warm summer air ruffling her hair. He turned his face away, stared out at the moonlit night.

They spoke not a single word.

In only a few minutes (Adelaide is a small town), she pulled into a circular drive in front of a big house with a bloated appearance and a plethora of superfluous spires on the steep roof.

When the car stopped, he threw open the door and walked toward the front steps, ignoring his wife.

She followed him into the marbled entryway and dropped her evening bag on a side table. Her reflection in a huge beveled mirror was at odds with her appearance at the party. She looked cool, amused, and confident.

A double staircase embraced a fountain and clumps of greenery. He was halfway up the left stairs, shoulders hunched, fists clenched.

“You haven’t asked,” she lifted her voice to be heard over the splash of the fountain, “if I had a good time at the party.”

He stopped, his back rigid. Slowly, he turned and looked down at her. “You’re a bitch.”

She continued to smile. “Sticks and stones… Come down. We’re going to talk.”

He remained midway up the stairs. “I want out.”

“Not in this lifetime.” Her tone was relaxed.

“I’ve got proof about you and Roger.” The muscles ridged in his face.

She shrugged. “A private detective? I’ve always wondered if they get a kick out of wondering what goes on behind the closed doors. I don’t care if you have a picture of us in bed; it isn’t going to do you any good. And here’s my hole card: you’re running for reelection next year. Do you think anybody will vote for a judge who beats on his wife? Shall I tell you what good work I managed at the party this evening?”

He gripped the handrail as if forcing himself to remain there. “I’m surprised someone hasn’t killed you, Eleanor.”

Her peal of laughter was derisive. “You’re too good a boy to commit murder, Brad.”

She stood with her head uplifted, quite beautiful and arrogant and terrible. I didn’t know what had brought their marriage to this stage, but there was no mistaking her intent. She had publicly played the part of a fearful woman trying to hide spousal abuse. He could proclaim his innocence, but whispers and sidelong looks and disbelief would dog him forever.

“I’ll tell everyone you’re lying.”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “Be my guest. No one will believe you. I’ve already made a good start on that. You’d better come down. I will explain”-and now her face was formidable, her voice cold-“exactly what I want and why you will be happy to cooperate.”

She didn’t wait to see if he complied. She turned to her left, flicked on a light, and walked into a comfortable den.

He started down the stairs, and I felt a pang of sorrow. He had a lost, bewildered look, a man facing ruin with no way out.

I dismissed thoughts of Precept Three. Though I would be happy to work behind the scenes, this time I had to make my presence known. There was only one chance to outwit Brad’s unscrupulous adversary.

I popped next to him on the stairs, gripped his arm, and whispered, “Keep her talking. I’ll video everything she says.”

He froze.

The clink of ice sounded from the den.

Brad stood rigid.

“You’d better get down here.” Her raised voice had a metallic edge. “I might have to call a friend for help. Big, bad old Brad. I don’t think you want me to do that.”

I tugged at his arm. “Do what I say.”

His head jerked from side to side.

Honestly, some men are so difficult to lead. With a little huff of exasperation, I swirled into being, admiring, as I did so, the crisp French blue of the Adelaide police uniform. Very flattering to a redhead. (A simple factual comment.)

He leaned back against the banister.

I jerked a thumb. “I’m here to help. Get down there and talk to her.” I tapped the small video camera anchored to my belt. “Every word will be recorded. Don’t give me a thought.” I disappeared.

The click of shoes on parquet flooring announced her impatient arrival in the doorway. “What’s keeping you?”

He rubbed his head as if it hurt, then made an odd, helpless gesture. “I’m coming.” He started down the stairs, but he darted several quick glances behind him.

Of course, there was no one there.

She waited, arms folded. “Who are you looking for?” She, too, gazed up the stairs, her face uneasy.

“I don’t know.” His voice was thin. “I thought I heard something.”

“Maybe you wish you did. You’d like an audience, wouldn’t you? Sorry not to oblige.”