Amy did call back, around seven, and this time Mort was able to talk to her quite normally - just as if the bathroom upstairs wasn't trashed and there weren't two dead men sitting behind a screen of bushes on the path down to the lake, stiffening as the twilight turned to dark around them.

She had spoken with Fred Evans herself since her last call, she said, and she was convinced he either knew something or suspected something about the fire he didn't want to tell them. Mort tried to soothe her, and thought he succeeded to some degree, but he was worried himself. If Shooter hadn't started the fire -and Mort felt inclined to believe the man had been telling the truth about that -then it must have been raw coincidence ... right?

He didn't know if it was right or not.

'Mort, I've been so worried about you,' she said suddenly.

That snapped him back from his thoughts. 'Me? I'm okay.'

'Are you sure? When I saw you yesterday, I thought you looked ... strained.' She paused. 'In fact, I thought you looked like you did before you had the ... you know.'

'Amy, I did not have a nervous breakdown.'

'Well, no,' she said quickly. 'But you know what I mean. When the movie people were being so awful about The Delacourt Family.'

That had been one of the bitterest experiences of Mort's life. Paramount had optioned the book for $75,000 on a pick-up price Of $750,000 - damned big money. And they had been on the verge of exercising their option when someone had turned up an old script in the files, something called The HomeTeam, which was enough like The Delacourt Family to open up potential legal problems. It was the only time in his career - before this nightmare, anyway -when he had been exposed to the possibility of a plagiarism charge. The execs had ended up letting the option lapse at the eleventh hour. Mort still did not know if they had been really worried about plagiarism or had simply had second thoughts about his novel's film potential. If they really had been worried, he didn't know how such a bunch of pansies could make any movies. Herb Creekmore had obtained a copy of the Home Team screenplay, and Mort had seen only the most casual similarity. Amy agreed.

The fuss happened just as he was reaching a dead end on a novel he had wanted desperately to write. There had been a short PR tour for the paperback version of The Delacourt Family at the same time. All of that at once had put him under a great deal of strain.

But he had not had a nervous breakdown.

'I'm okay,' he insisted again, speaking gently. He had discovered an amazing and rather touching thing about Amy some years before: if you spoke to her gently enough, she was apt to believe you about almost anything. He had often thought that, if it had been a species-wide trait, like showing your teeth to indicate rage or amusement, wars would have ceased millennia ago.

'Are you sure, Mort?'

'Yes. Call me if you hear any more from our insurance friend.'

'I will.'

He paused. 'Are you at Ted's?'

'Yes.'

'How do you feel about him, these days?'

She hesitated, then said simply: 'I love him.'

'Oh.'

'I didn't go with other men,' she said suddenly. 'I've alw............