"Just a rumor, Mrs. Krome. But I'm afraid it was enough to spook Ted Koppel."

"Shit," Mary Andrea said. She would've gargled battery acid to get on Nightline.

The managing editor went on: "We gave it our best shot, but they wanted it to be a mob hit or some cocaine kingpin's revenge for a frontpage expose. They were disappointed to find out Tom was just a feature writer. And after the adultery rumor, well, they quit returning our calls."

Mary Andrea slumped against the door. It was like skidding into a bad dream. That the media had already lost interest in Tom Krome's murder meant vastly reduced exposure for his bereft wife – and a wasted plane fare, Mary Andrea thought bitterly. Worse, she'd put herself in position to be humiliated if the fatal "mystery blaze" was traced to a jealous husband instead of a vengeful drug lord.

Damn you, Tom, she thought. This is my career on the line.

"How's the hotel?" she asked glumly.

"We got you a nonsmoking room, like you requested." Now the managing editor was chewing on a toothpick.

"And there's a gym with a StairMaster?"

He said: "No gym. No StairMaster. Sorry."

"Oh, that's great."

"It's a Hojo's, Mrs. Krome. We put up everybody at the Hojo's."

After a ten-minute sulk, Mary Andrea announced she'd changed her mind; she wished to return to the airport immediately. She said she was too grief-stricken to appear at the newspaper to accept the writing award Tom had won.

"What's it called again – the 'Emilio'?"

"Amelia," said the managing editor, "and it's quite a big deal. Tom's the first journalist to win it posthumously. It would mean a lot if you could be there in his place."

Mary Andrea sniffed. "Mean a lot to who?"

"Me. The staff. His colleagues." The managing editor rolled the toothpick with his tongue. "And possibly your future."

"Come on, you just told me – "

"We've got a press conference scheduled."

Mary Andrea Finley Krome drilled him with a stare. "A realpress conference?"

"The TV folks will be there, if that's what you mean."

"How do you know for sure?"

"Because it's a safe story."

"Safe?"

"Fluff. Human interest," the managing editor explained. "They don't want to get into the murky details of the murder, but they're thrilled to do twenty seconds on a pretty young widow receiving a plaque for her slain husband."

"I see."

"And I'd be less than frank," the managing editor added, "if I didn't admit my paper could use the publicity, too. This is a big award, and we don't win all that many."

"When you say TV, are we talking network?"

"Affiliates, sure. CBS, ABC and Fox."

"Oh. Fox, too?" Mary Andrea, thinking: I'll definitely need a new dress, something shorter.

"Will you do it?" the managing editor asked.

"I suppose I could pull myself together," she said.

Thinking: Twenty seconds of airtime, my ass.

Katie Battenkill made a list of things for which she had forgiven Arthur, or overlooked, because he was a judge and being married to a judge was important. The inventory included his annoying table manners, his curtness to her friends and relatives, his disrespect for her religion, his violent jealousy, his cheap and repeated adulteries, his habit of premature ejaculation and of course his rancid choice of cologne.

These Katie weighed against the benefits of being Mrs. Arthur Battenkill Jr., which included a fine late-model car, a large house, invitations to all society events, an annual trip to Bermuda with the local bar association, and the occasional extravagant gift, such as the diamond pendant Katie was now admiring in the vanity mirror.

She hadn't thought of herself as a shallow or materialistic woman, but the possibility dawned upon her. Art was quite the unrepentant sinner, yet for eight years Katie had put up with it. She'd spent little time trying to change him, but allowed herself to be intimidated by his caustic tongue and mollified by presents. Ignoring what he did became easier than arguing about it. Katie told herself it wasn't a completely loveless marriage, inasmuch as she honestly loved being the wife of a circuit court judge; it was Arthur himself for whom she had no deep feelings.

Many Sundays she'd gone to church and asked God what to do, and at no time had He specifically counseled her to start an illicit affair with an itinerant newspaperman. But that's what had happened. It had caught Katie Battenkill totally by surprise and left her powerless to resist – like one of her uncontrollable cravings for Godiva chocolate, only a hundred times stronger. The moment she'd laid eyes on Tom Krome, she knew what would happen ...

She was in a walkathon for attention-deficit children when all of a sudden this good-looking guy came jogging down James Street in the opposite direction, weaving through the phalanx of T-shirted marchers. As he approached Katie, he slowed his pace just enough to smile and press a five-dollar bill in her palm. For the kids, he'd said, and kept running. And Katie, to her astonishment, immediately turned and ran after him.

Tom Krome was the first man she'd ever seduced, if that's what you call a hummer in the front seat.

Now, looking back on those wild and guilt-ridden weeks, Katie understood the purpose. Everything happens for a reason – a divine force had brought Tommy jogging into her life. God was trying to tell her something: that there were good men out there, decent and caring men whom Katie could trust. And while He probably didn't intend for her to have torrid reckless sex with the first one she met, Katie hoped He would understand.

The important thing was that Tom Krome made her realize she could get by without Arthur, the lying snake. All she needed was some self-confidence, a reordering of priorities and the courage to be honest about the empty relationship with her husband. There hadn't been enough time to fall in love with Tommy, but she certainly likedhim better than she liked Arthur. The way Tom had apologized for forgetting to call that night from Grange – Katie couldn't remember hearing Arthur say he was sorry for anything. Tom Krome wasn't special or outstanding; he was just a kind, affectionate guy. That's all it took. The fact that Katie Battenkill was so easily drawn astray portended a dim future for the marriage. She decided she had to get out.

Katie recalled a line from an Easter sermon: "To tolerate sin is to abet it, and to share in the sinning." She thought of Arthur's many sins, including Dana, Willow and others whose names she never knew. That was bad enough, the adultery, but now the judge had commissioned an arson and a man was dead.

Not an innocent man, to be sure; an evil little shit. Yet still precious in the eyes of a benevolent God.

That was a sin Katie could not tolerate, if she hoped to save herself. What to do now?

In the mirror the diamond necklace glinted like a tiny star among her many freckles. Of course it was nothing but a bribe to ensure her silence, but dear God, was it gorgeous.

The bathroom door opened and out came her husband with The Registerfolded under one arm.

"Art, we need to talk."

"Yes, we do. Let's go to the kitchen."

Katie was relieved. The bedroom was no place to drop the bomb.

She noticed her hands fluttering as she filled the coffeemaker. Over her shoulder she heard Arthur say, "Katherine, I've decided to retire from the bench. How would you like to live in the islands?"

Slowly she turned. "What?"

"I've had enough. The job is killing me," he said. "I'm up for reelection next year but I don't have the stomach for another campaign. I'm burned out, Katie."

All she could think to say was: "We can't afford to retire, Art."

"Thank you, Ms. Dean Witter, but I beg to differ."