The segment on creativity is three minutes. At one point, in the middle of our live interview, Georgia says to Peter (and hence to the world), “I’m a very honest, blunt person, and let me tell you: My writing leaves much to be desired.”

Jack quickly adds, “Anyone with half a brain will know that what she’s saying means nothing. It’s the normal thing writers and artists say when they’re in the throes of self-doubt, which any decent writer or artist is in, much of the time. Plus, like many great artists, she’s a bit bipolar . . . I mean, not clinically, but you know . . . so don’t listen to a word she’s saying. Her writing is pure genius and everyone knows it.”

Peter nods. “What’s it like being part of such a creative circle?”

“It can be difficult,” Georgia replies. “One of us is extremely messed up. Far more than the rest of us.”

“Really?” Peter chuckles. “You?”

“No. Why would you say that? Should I be offended?”

“Of course not. But then, who?” he asks.

“We don’t know who. Hopefully one day we will.”

Peter laughs again. “You guys are just fascinating. What is it that makes some people highly creative, like Georgia, Lily, and Barb, and others less so, like, perhaps, you and me, Jack?”

We stare down at the desktop thoughtfully, until Georgia says, “We’re not at our best tonight. We’re stressed and distracted because something’s coming up in two days that we’re really dreading.”

I shoot her an alarmed look.

“What is it?” Peter asks.

“I wish we could tell you. It would make for good TV. But we can’t, sorry,” she says.

“That’s all right. Eccentricities are permitted, forgiven, and even encouraged, where geniuses are concerned.”

Georgia blushes. “Don’t look at me. I’m a lackluster writer, which is something I discovered only recently after recovering some work I’d lost.”

“I happen to know that the vast majority of people who’ve read you would disagree. I also know that a lot of people who have regular jobs have artistic aspirations they’ve neglected. This can cause a certain amount of regret for them. What advice, if any, do you have for those people? Lily, Barb, Penelope, any thoughts?”

We each come up with some banalities along the lines of: it’s never too late; no use regretting the past; pursue your dream even if it’s just five minutes a day before or after work; what’s important is making the time for it, etc.

Peter Marrick says, “Georgia’s second novel, The Liquid Angel, is about a woman whose dream is to become a great artist. One day, to thank her for saving his life, a stranger kidnaps her for nine months and forces her, against her will, to become a great artist. Do any of you have anything to say about that?”

When no one answers, I say, “It’s a story that appeals to a lot of people in artistic fields, especially people whose strong suit is not self-discipline. Lily and I have joked that what happens to the woman in that novel is not entirely unappealing. We sometimes have fantasies of being forced to work, when our own discipline is lacking.”

“Final question,” says Peter. “Is discipline enough? I have a friend, Bob, who claims he has no imagination, yet he wants to be creative. He dreams of doing some good art. Is there any hope for him?”

“No,” Georgia says. “If he lacks imagination, there’s no hope for him artistically. Imagination is the one requirement. Pretty much the only one, really. But so what? Lacking imagination has some great advantages.”

“Like what?”

“Happiness.”

“Really?”

“Sure. In a way, your friend Bob is lucky. So is my mother, who also claims she has no imagination. I think some of the sanest, happiest people are those with the least imagination. Paranoia, for instance, wouldn’t get very far without it. Life is easier without it.”

We go home after being bade a warm farewell by Peter Marrick. I’m sad I didn’t chat with him at greater length during his few attempts at talking to me and the others. I wish we could have done the show when we didn’t have a deadly dinner coming up.

WHEN I REACH my building fifteen minutes later, Adam the doorman opens my cab door for me, greeting me with: “Moonlight becomes you—total darkness even more.”

The taxi driver looks at him, startled.

I blink, at a loss for words. I’m not at my sharpest tonight. I just stare at Adam, thoughtfully. He stares right back at me, just as thoughtfully. Not taking his eyes off mine, he breaks the silence softly, dreamily, with, “When I look into your eyes, I see the back of your head.”

He’s clearly unwell. I wonder if now is the time I should try to help him.

As I’m considering this, he says, “Sit down and give your mind a rest.”

That unblocks me. “Actually, that’s a good idea, Adam. Why don’t we sit here together for a moment and talk?” I say, pointing at the little bench near the door.

The cab driver is still staring at us, which makes me uncomfortable.

Not budging toward the bench, Adam says to me, “I’m too busy. Can I ignore you some other time?”

A middle-aged couple passes us on their way into the building.

“Have a nice evening, Mr. and Mrs. Portman,” Adam says, smiling at them pleasantly.

“Thanks, Adam. You too,” they answer, smiling back.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, I say, “When would be a good time for you to listen to me for a couple of minutes?”

“How about never? Is never good for you?”

“Then let’s talk now, just for a minute.”

“Sorry, I can’t. But where will you be in ten years?”

Trusting he’ll eventually run out of comebacks, I persevere: “Adam, there’s a subject I’d like to discuss with you. It won’t take long.”

He takes two slow steps toward me until he’s closer than I find comfortable. Looking amused, he bores his eyes down into mine and says intimately, “My, my. Aren’t you a little black hole of need.”

“Just this once. That’s all I ask. It’ll be quick.”

“A quickie?”

I nod. “A short conversation.”

“Hard to resist. But why don’t we play house instead? You be the door, and I’ll slam you.”

“You’re very quick-witted and clever, Adam.”

“Your flattery repels me, Barb,” he says. And immediately he hollers “Ow!” and holds his tongue in his fingers, as though in pain.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Your very name blisters my tongue.”

I remember a similar line from my high school Shakespeare class and say, “And you’re very well read, too. Listen, I want to help you. I know a therapist. I’ve seen her myself. I think she can help you, regardless of why you’re doing this.”

“Keep talking,” he says, yawning. “I always yawn when I’m interested.”

“This therapist might be able to uncover why you act and feel the way you do.”

Looking at me thoughtfully, Adam says, “I see what your problem is. You suffer from delusions of adequacy.”

“The cause of your unusual behavior might be emotional, chemical, psychological. It might be something you’re not even aware of.”

“Please breathe the other way. You’re triggering my gag reflex.”

“Okay, well, have a pleasant evening, Adam.”

I walk to the elevator, concerned that his problem might be getting worse. He’s becoming less inhibited, less careful. He allowed a taxi driver to hear him. Who will be next? Someone who might get him fired?

Once I’m in my apartment, my mom calls and tells me she saw the interview and that I was good, but that tragically the camera added ten pounds on top of the dozens of fake pounds already on me.

IT’S THURSDAY MORNING. Only one day left. The NYU students arrive. By three p.m., they and I have finished searching my apartment for weapons and have found nothing, which raises my spirits slightly. Maybe the killer is not as determined as I feared.

Late in the afternoon, I decide to go shopping. I need a change of scenery. I buy a cuckoo clock, in case we become complacent during the evening of Strad’s death. Every hour, the bird will pop out and scream “Cuckoo” to remind us there is one among us. It’ll keep our nerves on edge, where they should be.