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Lord.
    â€œThat’s him,” she said. “Don’t worry — that’s not fear or pain. That’s the cry of the wounded artist, Detective Inspector. Hell hath no fury like a writer scorned.”
    Sydney could hear what he was screaming at the producer, who stopped, staggering momentarily under the weight of his noble burden.
    â€œYou turd! Couldn’t you wait until I got here to make changes? Or is this your idea of a joke, scaring the fucking daylights out of me with fucking daggers — get Toni off the set and send that rubber fake back to props before I — I —”
    Gilbert Ensor was halted in mid-sentence by the sudden arrival of the distraught marchesa against his ample belly, temporarily winding him. She was screaming in Italian, so he had no idea what he had said or done to upset her. Her long red nails scored his face before Piero Bonini managed to restrain her. Through the searing pain he grasped one word, said over and over again.
    â€œ Morto — morto — morto !”
    Dead?
    Ahead of him he saw his wife in a chair, the detective inspector alongside her. Beyond them, two ambulance attendants were covering Toni Albarosa’s body. His jaw dropped. Violent death had rendered Gilbert Ensor speechless.
    There followed one of those uncanny moments of silence that sometimes comes on the heels of uproar. Then into the silence came the rumble of a powerful engine. From the half-light around the villa thundered a gleaming Ducati motorcycle, its streamlined scarlet and black body brilliant in the arc light. Sydney Tremaine saw long blond hair flying beneath a winged helmet, powerful leather-clad legs stretched against the sides of the monster as, with a dramatic flick of the wrists, the rider brought her mount to a shrieking halt and pulled off her helmet.
    Ed Moretti, looking down at the face of Sydney Tremaine, was intrigued by what he saw.
    â€œYou know her?”
    â€œNo.”
    Sydney got up from the chair and went toward her shell-shocked husband. The Valkyrie ran over to the marchesa, putting her arms around her. Together, they went into the manor, with Piero Bonini behind them.
    Other members of the island police force had arrived to help with the dozens of statements that would have to be taken from everybody in the cast and crew. The Ensors and the Vannoni family were waiting in the manor to be interviewed by Moretti and Liz Falla. Finally, some semblance of order had been restored.
    Moretti waited until the body was loaded into an ambulance and then turned to the Vannonis’ doctor, a local St. Andrew’s man called Le Pelley.
    â€œSo — what can you tell me?”
    â€œOnly what I told you before.” Le Pelley, clearly somewhat shaken himself, removed his glasses and put them in his coat pocket. “He was killed, almost instantly. Whether by luck or good management, the point of the blade got him right through the heart.”
    â€œTime of death?”
    â€œWe’ll know more after the autopsy — but, what time is it now? Nine-thirty? I’d say about five hours ago.”
    â€œFive hours!” Moretti was taken by surprise. “I thought you’d say midnight — something like that.”
    â€œDefinitely not midnight — he’d not been dead long when he was found around five o’clock.”
    â€œWho found him?”
    â€œOne of the security guards, apparently. A couple stay around all night to keep an eye on the equipment.”
    â€œThen he probably only just missed being another murder victim.”
    Moretti said goodbye to Le Pelley and joined Liz Falla, who was waiting for him with a very worried-looking director, Mario Bianchi, and the reason for his expression soon became clear.
    â€œI’ve already lost about two hours shooting time today, and the Constable tells me I can’t touch what has now become the crime scene for at least another hour. If then.”
    Mario Bianchi was almost