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any further: “He’s a . . . policeman.”
    Streck raised his eyebrows. “Really? Here in Santa Barbara?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Quite a house for a policeman.”
    “Excuse me?” she said.
    “Didn’t know policemen were paid so well.”
    “Oh, but I told you—I inherited the house from my aunt.”
    “Of course, I remember now. You told me. That’s right.”
    Trying to reinforce the lie, she said, “We were living in an apartment when my aunt died, and then we moved here. You’re right—we wouldn’t have been able to afford it otherwise.”
    “Well,” he said, “I’m happy for you. I sure am. A lady as pretty as you deserves a pretty house.”
    He tipped an imaginary hat to her, winked, and went along the walk toward the street, where his white van was parked at the curb.
    She closed the door and watched him through a clear segment of the leaded, stained-glass oval window in the center of the door. He glanced back, saw her, and waved. She stepped away from the window, into the gloomy hallway, and watched him from a point at which she could not be seen.
    Clearly, he hadn’t believed her. He knew the husband was a lie. She shouldn’t have said she was married to a cop, for God’s sake; that was too obvious an attempt to dissuade him. She should have said she was married to a plumber or doctor, anything but a cop. Anyway, Art Streck was leaving. Though he knew she was lying, he was leaving.
    She did not feel safe until his van was out of sight.
    Actually, even then, she did not feel safe.

2
    After murdering Dr. Davis Weatherby, Vince Nasco had driven his gray Ford van to a service station on Pacific Coast Highway. In the public phone booth, he deposited coins and called a Los Angeles number that he had long ago committed to memory.
    A man answered by repeating the number Vince had dialed. It was one of the usual three voices that responded to calls, the soft one with a deep timbre. Often, there was another man with a hard sharp voice that grated on Vince.
    Infrequently, a woman answered; she had a sexy voice, throaty and yet girlish. Vince had never seen her, but he had often tried to imagine what she looked like.
    Now, when the soft-spoken man finished reciting the number, Vince said, “It’s done. I really appreciate your calling me, and I’m always available if you have another job.” He was confident that the guy on the other end of the line would recognize his voice, too.
    “I’m delighted to hear all went well. We’ve the highest regard for your workmanship. Now remember this,” the contact said. He recited a seven-digit telephone number.
    Surprised, Vince repeated it.
    The contact said, “It’s one of the public phones at Fashion Island. In the open-air promenade near Robinson’s Department Store. Can you be there in fifteen minutes?”
    “Sure,” Vince said. “Ten.”
    “I’ll call in fifteen with the details.”
    Vince hung up and walked back to the van, whistling. Being sent to another public telephone to receive “the details” could mean only one thing: they had a job for him already, two in one day!

3
    Later, after the cake was baked and iced, Nora retreated to her bedroom at the southwest corner of the second floor.
    When Violet Devon had been alive, this had been Nora’s sanctuary in spite of the lack of a lock on the door. Like all the rooms in the large house, it had been crammed with heavy furniture, as if the place served as a warehouse instead of a home. It had been dreary in all other details as well. Nevertheless, when finished with her chores, or when dismissed after one of her aunt’s interminable lectures, Nora had fled to her bedroom, where she escaped into books or vivid daydreams.
    Violet inevitably checked on her niece without warning, creeping soundlessly along the hall, suddenly throwing open the unlockable door, entering with the hope of catching Nora in a forbidden pastime or practice. These unannounced inspections had been frequent during Nora’s