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treated him pretty rough."
    "I already know that, since he died right on top of me."
    "If you get hold of whatever it was he had then they're sure as hell going to treat you rough, too."
    "That's one of the risks, sure. Turn right after we pass that godawful mustard-colored saltbox house."
    Ben did and they entered a cul-de-sac. At its end rose a narrow, three-story Victorian house, still vaguely white and rich with carved trimming, spires and cupolas. The sea wind had been working at it for over a century, rubbing away much of the paint, twisting the multitude of dark shutters askew, trying to pull the rusted weathercock from its high perch.
    The wide front yard consisted of foot-high grass in which lurked a cast-iron elk, the remains of a tandem bicycle, a marble fountain topped by a tottering sea nymph, the weather-beaten and possibly female figurehead off a sailing ship, and the ramshackle skeleton of a small gazebo.
    "That's the Coldport Actors Retirement Home." H.J. gestured at it.
    "I figured as much." He parked a few dozen feet from the sprung wrought-iron front gate.
    "Let me do the talking." She left the car, gracefully and swiftly.
    "Same ground rules as our marriage." He followed at a less enthusiastic pace than hers.
    "You can be a sourball at times."
    They started up through the overgrown lawn, following the remains of a path made of cracked and disordered flagstones. H.J. hurried up the swayback front steps, poking at the doorbell with a forefinger.
    Far off inside the giant old house a buzzer made a faint choking sound. After a moment, footsteps could be heard. The oaken door rattled, creaked, swung open inward.
    "Well, my goodness, it's Helen. Nice to see you, dear, though under the circumstances, you'll excuse me if I'm not my usual jolly self." The manager of the home, a tall, plump woman of about seventy had opened the door. She had fluffy hair the color of brand new cotton and wore a pale green pantsuit.
    H.J. smiled, studying the woman's face. "What circumstances, Mrs. Farber?"
    "Oh, I thought that was why you were here, hon." She reached out of the house to pat H.J. on the elbow. "You and your other boyfriend used to visit him. It's poor Mr. McAuliffe."
    Ben guessed, "He's dead?"
    "He's dead," confirmed Mrs. Farber.

Chapter 7
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    "N atural causes?" asked H.J. from the fat, flowered armchair.
    "Why, yes, hon." Mrs. Farber set her cup on the claw-footed coffee table in front of her and gave the young woman a puzzled look "Yes, he passed away in his sleep two days ago, poor man. That's me back in my Hollywood days, Mr. Spanner."
    Ben was making a slow circuit of the cluttered living room, scanning the dozens of framed photos on the walls. "And that's George Givot and Isabel Jewell with you on the soundstage."
    The manager chuckled. "You're the first person in years to recognize either one of them."
    "Givot was a voice man on the side."
    "Oh, are you in—"
    "McAuliffe," put in H.J., recrossing her legs. "What exactly did he die of, Mrs. Farber?"
    "Mostly just old age, Helen." She sighed, touched a knuckle to the corner of her right eye. "I was the one, you know, who found him. He was in his room up on the second floor, stretched out on his bed. He looked very peaceful and you might also have thought he was just taking a nap, except you can usually tell when someone's dead. His heart simply gave out, according to Dr. Weinberg."
    Ben stopped in front of another large glossy photograph. "Here's McAuliffe," he said, tapping it.
    The late ventriloquist, a heavyset blond man in a tuxedo, was sitting with his back to a dressing room mirror. Sharing the picture was a scatter of dummies.
    "He wasn't an especially handsome man, but he was extremely likeable," observed the manager of the home. "Very kind to one and all with never—"
    "Had he had many visitors lately?" asked H.J.
    "Besides your other boyfriend, no. Except for his cousin. He had a cousin who lives over in Smithtown. As a matter of fact,