The pulse of bright sunlight and deep shade was starting to bother me. I didn't suffer from reflex epilepsy, and so far I'd never had a seizure triggered by outside stimuli, but I was feeling a little susceptible at the moment. Not to seizures so much as life in general. I closed my eyes, put my head back, and immediately thought of Jack. I shut that line of thought off instantly.

I liked Jack a lot – too much – and he basically thought I was a good-looking liability. Not a lot of room to go from there.

Instead, I made myself think about the night of Eva's murder. She had been found stabbed to death with a bloody tarot card stuck to her bodice. Where had the tarot card come from? Surely Eva hadn't walked around with The Lovers card in her handbag?

Roman Mayfield had done a couple of readings at the party, but not for Eva. I'd read several accounts of the evening, and they all had made a point that Eva did not have a reading. Granted, the readings had not been serious, more high spirits than a spiritual high.

The card had come from Mayfield's tarot deck, that much had been established, but Mayfield had left the deck with his cape – yep, cape – hat and driving gloves in the bar at

the hotel, which meant that at least thirty people had access to it. Besides, by the late '50s, the Garden of Allah was hosting more than its share of call girls, con artists, and riffraff. And, in fact, one theory was that Eva had fallen prey to a crazed transient. It wasn't a popular theory, but it did have its merits.

If someone had deliberately swiped the card and followed Eva out to Stephen Ball's cottage, then her murder had been sort-of premeditated. Not completely premeditated because no one could have counted on Mayfield bringing his tarot deck to the party and doing a reading – could they?

Of course, the simplest explanation was that Mayfield had palmed his own tarot card and planted it on Eva's body after he killed her, but that would be stupidly incriminating. Besides, what motive did he have? And besides that, his movements were accounted for during the evening. Although I hadn't seen the accounting myself. * * * * *

There were two messages blinking on my answering machine when I let myself into my apartment. One was from a bookstore letting me know that they'd found a copy of the original Life magazine with the photo layout of the night of Eva's murder.

The second was from my publisher, and the news was good. Stephen Ball had finally agreed to see me.

Chapter Nine

I didn't like Stephen Ball.

In fairness, I hadn't liked him even before we actually met. I never thought much of his acting and I loathed his politics. I'd seen way too many documentary clips of him testifying in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee about communists in Hollywood. He had retired from film and television at least a decade earlier, and now spent his free time on golf courses or attending lifetime achievement banquets.

Our interview was held poolside at his Beverly Hills home. Ball was drinking Tom Collinses while the current Mrs. Ball – a nineteen-year-old former Victoria's Secret model –practiced her high dive at the end of the park-sized pool.

«I'll be frank with you,» Ball said after I'd been seated at the large umbrella-shaded table and handed a highball glass, «I'm not happy about this book of yours.» «Why's that?» I asked.

«Let's not play games, son. You're digging into Eva's death and that's a painful subject for a lot of us.»

«It was a long time ago,» I said. «Half a century.» I sipped my drink and waited for his response. I didn't bother pointing out that there weren't «a lot of us» left.

Ball had to be in his nineties now, but he could easily have passed for fifteen to twenty years younger. He was tall and deeply tanned with unnaturally coal black hair and equally coal black eyebrows and mustache. He'd had some work done around his mouth and eyes, but nothing too ridiculous. His eyes were so blue I half suspected contacts. They studied me coldly.

«And you're going to write this goddamn book with or without my cooperation,» he commented, «so I might as well give you the facts. If you've been talking with that fruitcake Roman Mayfield, you could use a few facts.» «You're not one of Mayfield's clients?»

«Hell no.» He snorted. «Oh, sure, I read my horoscope in the paper. Everyone does, but that's as far as my interest in the occult goes.»

There had been a photo of a much younger Ball and the Seer to the Stars in Mayfield's photo gallery, but maybe he had outgrown that interest early. I decided to move in another direction. «You were a leading suspect in Eva Aldrich's death, weren't you?»

He said shortly, «She was found in my bungalow. Yes, you could say I was a leading suspect. Although I think the police always knew Will Burack was the real culprit.» «Meaning you believe Burack killed her?»

«You're goddamn right. He was the only one with a motive. That alibi of his was tissue paper. I don't know why the cops didn't force the truth out of him and that lying, treacherous broad he was shacked up with.»

Like how did he think the police were going to force the truth? Rubber hoses and bright lights? Mildly, I asked, «You were having an affair with Eva, weren't you?»

«That was over a long time before,» he said, dismissing. He picked up his glass, drinking and watching me over the rim with his chilly blue eyes.

«You were engaged to her for a short time when she first arrived in Hollywood,» I agreed. «She married Burack instead. So maybe it wasn't an affair, maybe you were just sleeping together.»

He gave a crisp laugh and nodded to me as though acknowledging a point in a game. «Maybe so. We'd just finished making a picture together. Danger in the Dunes. The old fire was still there.» He winked at me. «But she was engaged to Fumagalli.»

«That dago!» He raised his glass to the swimwear model who'd made another perfect dive off the board at the end of the pool. «There was no way she was going to marry him.» «Do you know why she broke it off? Was it because of you?»

«Probably.» He smiled a dazzling white smile. I suspected dentures. «Like I said, the old chemistry was there.» «What happened the night she was killed?»

He picked up the pitcher of Tom Collins, topped off my drink and then leaned back, folding his arms across his tanned chest. He drawled, «What do you think happened?» «I think you arranged to meet her at your villa.»

His gaze held mine for a long moment, and then he relaxed. «I guess there's never really been much mystery about that. Yes, I gave her my keys and told her I'd meet her there in about half an hour. The party was winding down by then, but even so, I couldn't get away as quickly as I wanted. Finally I managed to slip out. I walked out past the pool yard. I remember thinking how quiet it was. You could hear the music from the hotel. They were playing 'An Affair to Remember.' I remember how bright the stars were.» His smile was suddenly strained. «There were only a couple of people in the pool by then.» He fell silent. I waited.

«The lights were on in the villa. It looked…welcoming.» He cleared his throat. «The front door wasn't quite latched. I pushed it open and stepped inside. She was lying on the floor between the bedroom and the front room. Her eyes were open.» His own eyes rose out of the horrendous past and met mine. «I knew at once she was dead.» «I'm sorry,» I said. And I was.

«She'd been wearing this dress…lots of filmy layers in a pale shade of pink. You know the kind of thing women wore back then. It was like…a cloud around her. It was splotched with her blood. There was blood everywhere. I'd never seen so much blood. They never did get it all out of that tile.» «Did you notice the tarot card right away?»

He said slowly, «Not at first. She was, as I said, soaked in blood. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust, to recognize it – lying on her chest – smeared in her blood.» «Not pinned to her dress?» He shook his head. «It looked like someone had deliberately placed it on her.»