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to be parted, who mirrored, despite differences in time and culture, the passion that seals a man to a woman. The effect of the whole was subtly erotic, implying the urgency of desire, the foolishness of delay, the relentless passage of time, a reckless haste to seize the moment.
    The dimly lit ballroom added dramatic intensity to the illuminated frescoes and an air of mystery to the dancers, most of whom were masked. And such marvelous masks! They were definitely not five-and-dime cardboard but creations in papier-mâché especially for the Valentine party. She spotted Mickey and Minnie Mouse, George and Martha Washington, Cleopatra and Antony, Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, Charles and Di, even Héloïse and Abélard. Guests gathered in excited knots at long tables on either side of the ballroom. Every so often a couple would break free, triumphantly waving their trophies. What fun! Who could she and Max be? But first, she had to make Max understand about Laurel, who had plunged into the milling crowd and was lost to view.
    “Howard Cahill,” she hissed. “It’s Howard Cahill.”
    “Are you all right, honey? Sure that’s Howard Cahill. You’ve met him a dozen times.”
    “Didn’t you see him and Laurel
look
at each other?”
    Max touched her cheek. “You aren’t feverish, are you?”
    Annie barely restrained herself from stamping her foot. Sometimes Max, even though he was as handsome and delectable as a grown-up Joe Hardy, could be utterly maddening, more obtuse than Chet Morton at his worst.
    “The man who helped Laurel get the rental car out of the ditch. It was
Howard.”
    Max smiled benignly, craning his neck. “Good old Howard.”He spotted the bar. “Makes me thirsty, climbing stairs. What would you like? Spritzer?”
    If she couldn’t fasten her hands around his throat and throttle him, a spritzer would be second best. Apparently having about as much social antenna as Mike Hammer, Max had missed the interplay when Laurel and Howard met. Of course, that was the point. They hadn’t just met. Howard was the man who had evoked such lyrical excitement in Laurel that morning. An Elaine Raco Chase heroine could scarcely evince more enthusiasm. Annie’s heart sank.
    Laurel had neglected to tell Max that she was in love with one of their neighbors. Obviously, Howard would have introduced himself when he gallantly rescued Laurel from the ditch. Just as obviously, there was no need for him to say exactly where he lived. But why hadn’t Laurel made the connection when Sydney came by to urge them all to come to the party? Of course, it would be just like Sydney to introduce herself simply as Sydney with no surname. So Laurel didn’t know the name of her host and hostess until tonight on the pier when Annie obligingly spewed forth information about the residents of the Scarlet King compound.
    “Saint John de Britto, my foot! Immerse oneself in a culture, my—” She broke off as the masked figure next to her—a much too chubby Marilyn Monroe—turned toward her inquiringly.
    Annie bared her teeth in what she hoped looked like a gracious smile. “Thought I saw an old friend, John Britton,” she babbled. “But no such luck.” She turned determinedly away and glared at the bar. It couldn’t have been any more jammed if it had been the saloon aboard the SS
Karnak
in
Death on the Nile
. She waited impatiently for Max’s return. She had to make Max understand that Laurel was obviously—Oh. Wait a minute. Cool reasoning overtook impulse. How could she tell Max that his mother was flinging herself at a married man? Annie foresaw difficulties.
    The band eased from a Cole Porter love song into a Viennese waltz. Elizabeth Taylor and Eddie Fisher swept by, but Annie would recognize that blue satin dress anywhere. She wondered who Laurel’s partner was. Not Howard,because he and Sydney,
sans
masks, had just appeared in the ballroom. But body language shouts. Obviously, Laurel’s partner was smitten. Annie