"Soon as they get directions to your house."

I said a very unladylike word.

Arthur laughed. "You can say that again. You know if it gets bad you can come stay with me."

"I think not," I said, smiling. "Notorious Widow in Cop's Love Shack?"

Arthur took a deep breath. "Listen, Roe, who in that movie crew was especially close to Celia Shaw?"

"Almost anyone would know more about that than I know." I slung the purse onto the counter, slid out of my pumps, and made some fresh coffee. I got a mug out of the cabinet and put it by the coffeepot, and I got out some sugar and milk for Arthur's coffee. Funny, if you'd asked me how he took it, I wouldn't have thought I remembered—but here I was, setting out the things he took.

"I have reasons for asking you."

"I'm sure you do. Well, of course, Robin dated her...though there were signs that the relationship was over."

"Like her going to bed with your stepson?"

"Yeah, like that. No, really, there were indications before that."

"Who else?"

"She seemed to be big buddies with Meredith Askew. I'm not sure how two-way that was, but Celia used Meredith to deliver her messages."

"What about other crew members?"

"Will Weir was with her when I ran into them while they were shopping."

Arthur consulted his notes. "He would be the head cameraman. I understand he's more famous in his field that Celia Shaw had gotten to be in hers."

"Well, he has a few years on her."

"Anyone else?"

"When we went out to dinner at Heavenly Barbecue, Mark Chesney went."

"He the assistant director? The gay one?"

"Right. Well, that is, he's the assistant director. I don't know about the gay part." Actually, that was a conclusion I'd reached myself. I found that I was unwillingly impressed. There was no telling how many people Arthur had interviewed yesterday. He was definitely on top of this investigation.

"Did you notice anything peculiar about this actress?"

"Peculiar? How so? Mentally?" I'd seldom seen anyone more focused than Celia Shaw.

"Physically."

"Yes, I had noticed some things. She stumbled a lot," I said.

"Stumbled." Arthur looked... not exactly excited, but intent.

"Yes, she was a little clumsy on her feet. And once she slapped at the director and looked surprised, like she didn't know she was going to do it."

Arthur looked down at his feet. He didn't want me to see his face.

"So, are you going to explain?" I am as curious as the next person, and this was truly aggravating of Arthur.

"It'll be in the papers," he said, more to himself than to me. He looked up. "No, I just can't. We're trying to keep it quiet as long as we can."

He had done this on purpose, I figured, to punish me for my lack of interest in him.

"Of course," said Arthur, his hard blue eyes fixed on my face, "if you were to butter up the lead detective sufficiently ..."

"Define ‘butter up,'" I said, my voice tart. I hoped he didn't mean what I thought he meant.

"A cup of that coffee would be nice."

I flushed, and poured him the coffee. It smelled so good, I decided I'd have more, too.

"You didn't open your paper this morning."

"No, I save the big Sunday paper for the afternoons."

Arthur slipped off the rubber band and unrolled the paper. Celia's murder was the below-the-fold story on the front page. I blinked at the amount of coverage. The picture of Celia was one taken at the Emmys, when she'd been hanging on Robin's arm. She looked fabulous, and very young. Robin looked awfully mature, compared to Celia.

I motioned at a chair at the table, and Arthur sat. I slid into the chair across from him and began reading. The more I read the hotter my cheeks got. There were several references to the age difference between Robin and Celia. There were several references to Barrett. You didn't have to be Miss Marple to read between the lines.

When I'd finished, I couldn't look up at Arthur. This time it was I who didn't want him to read my face. I was wondering who was responsible for the slant of the story. Was it this individual reporter? Was this the way Arthur had read the situation, and had the facts he'd released to the papers been selected because they followed Arthur's reading? Or had this reporter been talking to Barrett?

I was willing to bet on some combination of all these elements. There were details about the evening at Heavenly Barbecue that had "Barrett" stamped all over them, especially the inclusion of my name. It could easily have been left out of the story, and my presence at that awful meal clearly had no bearing on Celia's death—or at least, none that I could fathom. Barrett wanted to cause me discomfort and inconvenience, and he had.

The phone rang while I was thinking, and before I could answer it, Arthur picked it up. I felt rage prickle at the backs of my eyes while I waited for him to hand over my own telephone to me.

"Sure, she's right here," Arthur was saying, and as he gave me the receiver he got a good look at my face. I don't think he'd quite realized that he was upsetting me, but he sure knew now.

"Roe?" It was Robin.

"Yes."

"Have you... are you too busy to talk?"

"No, not at all."

"You sound kind of funny."

"I'm in a mood," I said, with self-control.

"Yes, I can tell. With me?"

"Oh, no."

"Have you read the paper?"

"Yes. It was just brought to my attention."

"Do you... are we still on for tonight?"

"Definitely."

"Good." He sounded flatteringly relieved. "This may be hard to arrange, because I'm besieged here at the motel."

"Let me think. I'll call you back."

He gave me his room number, which he'd forgotten to do at the church, and I said good-bye. I hung up and swung around to face Arthur.

"Don't answer the telephone in my home."

"I apologize. I was out of line. It was a reflex. I should have thought."

"Now, I need you to go. I have things I have to do this afternoon." I wondered what I would do if Arthur wouldn't leave, but I pushed that thought down into a corner as hard as I could. It wouldn't do to sound the least uncertain.

"All right," he said. "I'm sorry to have bothered you." Now he was getting all stiff and huffy. Screw it. No more Ms. Nice Widow.

I stared at him, unrelenting, until he stuffed his pad back into his pocket and stomped out. I set the alarm behind him. I watched from the window as he drove away. Again, I felt the isolation of this house. It was definitely time to move.

I wondered, as I turned away from the window, what big secret he had been going to tell me. I was proud of myself for not softening, but at the same time it was irritating to be left hanging that way.

As Robin and I had eventually arranged, I picked up a key at the desk and then pulled around to the back of the motel about two hours before my mother's dinner. We'd allowed plenty of time in case something went wrong.

Though they weren't in the front, where the office was, there were lots of reporters camped out in the side parking lot of the motel, and some television news vans. It had been easy for them to find out where the movie crew was staying. The men and women of the media were milling around on the pavement. Some of them had brought deck chairs, and some of them were playing cards.

I shook my head. I would not make a living as a reporter for any amount of money. No one could pay me enough to sit in a motel parking lot just in case someone should stick his head out of a door long enough to be photographed or interviewed.

I still had my hair up and I was wearing dark glasses, a rudimentary camouflage move. I scooted up the stairs to a room on the second floor, not even glancing out over the railing to see if I was being observed. I had noticed Shelby's car parked two slots down, and that was one big relief. Shelby had rented the room I'd just entered under his own name, and left the key at the desk for me.