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nuts. He could handle sane people. He didn't know what he'd do if she flipped out.

    "All right," she said finally. "Come this way, into the kitchen."

    He followed her to a kitchen that was straight out of the 1940's-the brownish linoleum floor with stains older than he was. It was clean but peeling up badly near the sink area. All the appliances were as old as the floor, and just as clean. He sat down at the table as she said, "Don't lean on it. One of the legs is uneven. See, Aunt Amabel has magazines under it to make it steady."

    He wondered how long the table had been like that. What an easy thing to fix. He watched Susan St. John Brainerd pour him some brandy in a water glass. He watched her pause and frown. He realized she didn't know how much to pour.

    "That's just right," he said easily. "Thank you." He waited until she'd poured herself a bit, then gave her a salute. "I need this. You scared the bejesus out of me. Nice to meet you, Susan St. John."

    "And you, Mr. Quinlan. Please call me Sally." "All right-Sally. After all our screams and shouts, why not call me James?"

    "I don't know you, even if I did scream at you." "The way you gouged me in the ribs, I'd give up before I'd let you attack me like that again. Where'd you learn to do that?''

    "A girl at boarding school taught me. She said her brother was the meanest guy in junior high and he didn't want a wuss for a sister so he taught her all sorts of self-defense tricks."

    He found himself looking down at her hands. They were as thin and pale as the rest of her. She said, "I never tried it before-seriously, I mean. Well, I did, several times, but I didn't have a chance, There were too many of them."

    What the hell was she talking about? He said, "It worked. I wanted to die. In fact, I'll be hobbled over for the next couple of days. I'm glad you missed my groin." He sipped his brandy, watching her. What to do? It had seemed so simple, so straightforward before, but now, sitting here, facing her, seeing her in the flesh as a person and not just as his key to the murder of Amory St. John, things weren't so clear anymore. He hated it when things weren't clear. "Tell me about your father." She didn't say anything, just shook her head. "Listen to me, Sally. He's dead. Your damned father is dead. That couldn't have been him on the phone. That means that it must have been either a recording of his voice or a person who could mimic him very well." "Yes," she said, still staring into the brandy. "Obviously someone knows you're here. Someone wants to frighten you."

    She looked up at him then, and remarkably, she smiled. It was a lovely smile, free of fear, free of stress. He found himself smiling back at her. "That someone succeeded admirably," she said. "I'm scared out of my mind. I'm sorry I attacked you."

    "I would have attacked me too if I had burst through the front door like that."

    "I don't know if the call was long distance. If it was long distance, then I've got some time to decide what to do." She paused, then stiffened. She didn't move, but he got the feeling that she'd just backed a good fifteen feet away from him. "You know who I am, don't you? I didn't realize it before, but you know." "Yes, I know." "How?"

    "I saw your photo on TV, also some footage of you with your father and your mother."

    "Amabel assures me that no one in The Cove will realize who I am. She says no one besides her has a TVexcept for Thelma Nettro, who's older than dust."

    "You don't have to worry that I'll shout it around. In fact, I promise to keep it to myself. I was in the World's Greatest Ice Cream Shop when I met your aunt. A Sherry Vorhees mentioned that you were visiting. Your aunt didn't say a word about who you were." Lying was an art, he thought, watching her assess his words. The trick was always to lean as much as possible toward the exact truth. It was a trick some of the town's citizens could benefit from.

    She was frowning, her hands clasped around the glass. Her