"Mac, you make it sound like some sort of B movie. You know, the murdered guy trying to tell someone who it was who killed him? It doesn't happen like that in real life."

"Who was Charlie Duck?"

"He was a retired cop from Chicago. More than fifteen years ago."

My heart speeded up again. "Look, Maggie, Jilly goes over a cliff. Someone murders a retired cop. Maybe the two don't have anything to do with each other, but I'd rather know for sure than guess about it."

"Surely his death can't have anything to do with Jilly driving off that cliff. It doesn't make any sense."

"Have the M.E. do an autopsy. His name's Ted Leppra. Call him now, Maggie. Get it done."

A big wallop, too much, then they got me.

What was going on here?

Jilly was alone. She was reading a newspaper. When she saw me, she grew very still. I was at her side in two big steps. "What's wrong?"

She smiled up at me and laid the newspaper aside. "Nothing at all, Ford. I'm looking human again, don't you think? Did you come to tell me good-bye?"

"No, I came to talk to you."

Again she grew still, as if she didn't want to see me, didn't want to talk to me. Why?

"Jilly, you're my sister. I've known you all my life. I love you. If you tried to commit suicide, just tell me why. I'll do what I can to help. I want to help. Please talk to me."

I knew her well enough to see the lie in her eyes and quickly added, "No, don't tell me you can't remember, like you told Maggie. Tell me the truth. Did you try to kill yourself, Jilly?"

"No, Ford, I'd never try to do such a ridiculous thing. Truth of it was that I lost control of my Porsche. I was singing as loud as I could, driving much too fast, and I lost control coming around a corner. That's it, Ford, I swear."

"Rob Morrison said you speeded up when you drove toward that cliff."

"He's wrong," Jilly said. "Absolutely wrong. I lost control. Maybe I hit the gas when I went through the railing, I don't remember. I suppose it's possible.

"Ford, I'm all right, truly. Go home now. You're still not back to one hundred percent. Better yet, take another week off and go down to Lake Tahoe and get some fishing in. You know you'd really like that."

"I'll think about it."

"Well, if I don't see you again, take care of yourself. You, Kevin, Gwen, and I-we'll get together at Gwen's in New York at Christmas."

It was a tradition, one we'd missed this past year and thus the get-together in February. I leaned down and hugged her hard against me. "I love you, Jilly," I said.

"I love you too, Ford. Don't worry about me anymore. Be sure to call Kevin and Gwen, tell them everything is all right."

The Tarcher house sat on a cul-de-sac at the end of Brooklyn Heights Avenue. It clearly dominated the other three or four pretenders set far apart from one another, separated by spruce and hemlock. The mansion was a good three times larger than Paul and Jilly's place, and looked like an honest-to-God Victorian transplant straight from San Francisco. Its basic color was cream, but there were another four or five accent colors used on the various window frames and sills, door frames, balcony railings, arches, cornices, and various other whimsical things whose names I didn't know. It looked like a huge, fascinating, over-the-edge birthday cake. It had been designed by people with lots of money and an equal amount of imagination.

Four young guys dressed in red shirts and black pants were valeting all the guests' cars. By the time Paul and I pulled up in his Ford Explorer, there must have been thirty cars parked all along both sides of the winding avenue. It looked like the whole town had turned out for the event.

Jilly had wanted to come. She wanted everyone to see she was back in action again, even though her Porsche wasn't. She told me she'd already gotten a towing service to figure out if they could get her Porsche out of the ocean. I'd said fine, you can come if you can walk without assistance from here to the end of the hall. She made eight steps and drooped. But she was fine, according to all the tests Dr. Coates had done on her since early that morning. I'd asked him if he was coming to the Tarchers' party and he'd said he wouldn't miss it unless a set of triplets was ready to slip out. My sister Gwen, who'd had three kids, none of whom, I was sure, had just slipped out, would have slugged him.

I turned to Paul as we stepped out of the Explorer in front of the Tarcher house. "Tell me about Tarcher, Paul."

"His full name's Alyssum Tarcher, and don't ask me where he got the weird name. He's been here some thirty years and he's filthy rich. I wouldn't be surprised if he owns half the state. Everybody here owes him, probably without exception. Nothing happens in this town that isn't run by him first. The mayor, Miss Geraldine, is at his beck and call. She'll do anything he wants. Actually, most of us will."