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bowl atop the white baby grand piano. Everyone was smoking; in fact, the room seemed to be divided into Smoking and Heavy Smoking sections. Judith felt herself weakening despite her long months of total abstinence, but caught Renie’s dark glare and repented.
    â€œI lament the Castles’ absence, but there’s no perfection in an imperfect world,” Max was saying, looking even more distinguished in his dinner jacket and black tie than he had in the lobby. At sixty, Max was still a handsome, well-preserved man whose silver hair and moustache only enhanced his masculine charm. By comparison, the shorter, somewhat younger man at his elbow seemed insignificant. The assessment, however, was utterly wrong. Maria introduced the cousins to Alabama Smith, the Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright whose works had electrified audiences for over two decades.
    â€œA pleasure, I’m sure,” declared Alabama in a carefully articulated voice that indicated he’d worked hard to rid himself of Dixie speech patterns. “You must meet my wife, Desiree Sinclair.”
    A mane of copper hair swung around from the Cubist sofa on which Desiree reclined, champagne glass tilted toward her red lips, green eyes shrewdly surveying the newcomers. No threat, her glance seemed to convey, and she flashed the famous smile that had dazzled her stage and screen admirers for more years than she probably cared to admit.
    â€œHot damn!” she exclaimed in the well-known throaty voice that had uttered lines for such diverse characters as Auntie Mame and Lady Macbeth. “Fresh blood. You’re friends of Spud’s as well as Maria’s, I gather.”
    â€œWell,” said Judith, trying to remember the name of Desiree’s last hit, “we knew them both in high school.”
    â€œCute.” Desiree swung her copper mane at the mousy woman who sat next to her on the sofa. “Did you go to high school, Mildred, or did the superintendent just order you a diploma because you were such a kiss-ass?”
    The painfully plain woman named Mildred seemed to scrunch even further into the plush cushions. “I worked very hard in school. I always work hard,” she said in a whiny voice. “I don’t know why you pick on me, Desiree. You never talk like that to Maria or Evelyn. Next time, let one of them lend you her Epilady shaver!” Her pale blue eyes squinted at the lavishly framed portrait on the end-table next to the sofa. Judith took a closer look: It was Max and Maria with the Sacred Eight, including the missing Castles, photographed in the Place Vendôme. They appeared delighted to be together, and Judith decided that the camera could lie.
    She was being officially introduced to the mousy Mildred, whose last name was Grimm and whose job was described as Max’s assistant, when a gnomelike man burst into the room pumping away at an atomizer. “Goodgrief,” whispered Renie, “I thought it was bug spray, and he was trying to zap the other guests.”
    He was, in fact, Birdwell de Smoot, the respected theater critic and enemy of tobacco smoke. “You’re all killing yourselves,” he announced, his pointed ears twitching and his tuxedoed chest puffed out like a penguin’s. “And me.” He stopped squirting the air spray long enough to stand on tiptoe for his welcoming kiss from Maria and to give Max a jerky handshake. He then plopped down on the sofa, landing between Desiree and Mildred. “Mildred, your dress is out of date. Pastels don’t become you. Why don’t you get a new hairstyle? Desiree, your perfume doesn’t go with your personality. You need to lose five pounds. You should never have taken that role in It’s His Toupee .”
    â€œGo screw yourself,” said Desiree with a yawn.
    Birdwell de Smoot ran a small hand over his bald head. “Who’s spitting on my scalp? I hate it when people speak and spit on me!” Behind