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more times than I care to admit. I'm not as trusting as I used to be and with good reason. Meanwhile, Jonah was in a constant state of upheaval according to the fluctuations in Camilla's moods. Her most recent claim was that she wanted an "open" marriage, his guess being that the sexual liberties were intended more for her than for him.
    "Missing Persons. Sergeant Schiffman." For an instant my mind went absolutely blank. "Rudy? This is Kinsey. Where's Jonah?"
    "Oh, hi, Kinsey. He's out of town. Took his family skiing for the holidays. It came up kind of sudden, but I thought he said he'd let you know. He never called?"
    "I guess not," I said. "Do you know when he's ex-pected back?"
    "Just a minute. Let me check." He put me on hold and I listened to the Norman Luboff Choir singing "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing." Christmas was over. Hadn't anybody heard? Rudy clicked back in. "Looks like January third. You want to leave a message?"
    "Tell him I hung myself," I said and rang off. I have to confess that in the privacy of my own home, I burst into tears and wept with frustration for six minutes flat. Then I went to work.
    The only line of attack I could think of was through
    Ash Wood. I hadn't spoken to her since high school, nearly fourteen years. I tried the directory. Her mother, Helen Wood, was listed and so was Lance, but there was no sign of Ash, which probably meant that she'd moved away or mar-ried. I tried the main house. A woman answered. I identi-fied myself and told her I was trying to locate Ash. Often I tell lies in a situation like this, but the truth seemed expedi-ent.
    "Kinsey, is that really you? This is Ash. How are you?" she said. All the Wood girls have voices that sound the same; husky and low, underlaid with an accent nearly Southern in its tone. The inflection was distinct, not a drawl, but an indolence. Their mother was from Alabama, if my memory hadn't failed me.
    "I can't believe my luck," I said. "How are you?"
    "Well, darlin', we are in a world of hurt," she replied, "which is why I'm so glad to hear from you. Lance men-tioned that he'd seen you at the plant last Friday. What's happening?"
    "That's what I called to ask you."
    "Oh Lord. I'd love to bring you up-to-date. Are you free for lunch by any chance?"
    "For you… anything," I said.
    She suggested the Edgewater Hotel at 12:30, which suited me. I'd have to change clothes first. My standard outfit consists of boots or tennis shoes, form-fitting jeans, and a tank top or a turtleneck, depending on the season. Sometimes I wear a windbreaker or a denim vest, and I've always got a large leather shoulder bag, which sometimes (but not often) contains my little.32. I was relatively cer-tain Ashley wouldn't appear in public like this. I hauled out my all-purpose dress, panty hose, and low heels. One day soon, I gotta get myself something else to wear.

5
    The Edgewater Hotel sits on twenty-three acres of ocean-front property, with lawns sweeping down to the sea. An access road cuts through, not ten feet from the surf, with a sea wall constructed of local sandstone. The architecture of the main building is Spanish, with massive white stucco walls, arched doorways, and deeply recessed windows. Horizontal lines of red tile define the roof. A glass-walled dining patio juts out in front, white umbrella tables shel-tering the patrons from sunlight and buffeting sea winds. The grounds are landscaped with juniper and palm, hibis-cus, bottle brush and fern, flower beds filled year round with gaudy annuals in hot pink, purple, and gold. The day was chill, the sky icy white and overcast. The drab olive-green surf was churned up by the outer fringes of a storm system that had passed us to the north.
    The valet parking attendant was far too discreet to remark, even with a look, the battered state of my ancient car. I moved into the hotel lobby and down a wide corridor furnished with a series of overstaffed, couches, inter-spersed with rubber plants. The ceiling overhead