Dr. Greenspoon's office was located to the right of the staircase, behind double mahogany doors. Bonnie knocked gently, as if not sure she wanted to be heard. Another buzzer clicked open the door, and Bonnie stepped inside the office.

Two secretaries, one black, one white, both young and impeccably groomed, sat behind a large curved desk. They looked up in unison and smiled solicitously as she approached. Bra.s.s name plates identified them as Erica McBain and Hyacinth Johnson. "Ms. Lonergan?" Erica McBain asked, her husky voice a well-practiced whisper.

"Yes," Bonnie answered, noting that the secretaries' clothes seemed to have been selected to coordinate with the decor. Soft shades of gray and rose were everywhere, from the deep rose of the matching love seats by the window to the pale rose of Hyacinth Johnson's blouse, from the muted gray of the carpet to the charcoal gray of Erica McBain's skirt. Bonnie felt out of place in her green-and-white-checkered pantsuit, like a weed in an otherwise well-tended garden. Surely, her outfit alone would reveal her as the imposter she was, and she would be unceremoniously yanked from the premises.

"The doctor will be with you shortly." A well-manicured hand with raspberry-colored nails pushed a clipboard across the desk. "If you wouldn't mind filling this out. The doctor's fee is two hundred dollars an hour, payable after each session."

Bonnie glanced at the clipboard. Name, address, phone number, social security number, age, occupation, marital status, referral, childhood illnesses, recent illnesses, medications, reason for visit. "Oh G.o.d," Bonnie muttered. So many lies to be written.

"Sorry?" the secretary asked. "Were you not aware of the doctor's rates?"

"It's not that," Bonnie said, scarcely aware of the amount. "I don't have a pen," she said, knowing she had at least half a dozen in her purse.

"Here you go." Hyacinth Johnson rolled a black ballpoint pen across the top of the desk. "Why don't you have a seat?" Dark eyes blinked toward the matching love seats.

"Thank you." Bonnie carried the clipboard to the sofas, lowered herself into one, surprised to find it firmer than she expected. What am I supposed to do now? she wondered, her hand gripping the pen, her fingers refusing to write. Come on, she urged. You've come this far. Just fill in the blanks. A half-truth here, a half-truth there. You're the teacher-do two half-truths equal one whole truth? Enough of this nonsense. Name: Bonnie Lonergan. Address: 250 Winter Street. They aren't going to check, discover that the name doesn't match with the address. Give them your phone number, for heaven's sake. They just need it for their files, in case they need to get in touch with you. They aren't going to go to the phone company, looking for discrepancies. Excuse me, but our investigation shows no one by the name of Bonnie Lonergan living at this address and registered to this phone number....

Bonnie couldn't remember her social security number, although she'd always known it by heart, and had to fumble in her purse for her wallet. She found it, dropped it, watched her driver's license tumble onto the carpet, reveal her true ident.i.ty for all to see. Except that n.o.body was looking. Erica McBain and Hyacinth Johnson were too busy answering the phones and working at their computers to worry about her misplaced ident.i.ty.

"This is ridiculous," Bonnie muttered under her breath, copying down her social security number. She had to calm down. Otherwise, she'd have a nervous breakdown right in the doctor's office, and he'd have her committed. Which might not be such a bad idea, she thought.

"Ms. Lonergan?" a male voice asked, and Bonnie jumped. Once again, her wallet slipped off her lap to the floor. The man knelt down to retrieve it, Bonnie recognizing his bald head from his newspaper photograph. She held her breath as Dr. Walter Greenspoon picked up her wallet, his thumb across her driver's license, blotting out her name. "Why don't you come inside?" he asked, returning the wallet to her clammy hand.

Bonnie nodded at the secretaries, although neither was looking her way, and followed Dr. Greenspoon into his office, a wonderful room that was all windows and built-in bookshelves. Two burgundy leather sofas sat across from one another, a long oval gla.s.s coffee table between them. A large mahogany desk sat off to one corner, as well as another small gla.s.s table and two pink-and-gray-pinstriped chairs. Several large plants stretched toward the high ceiling from corners of the room.

Walter Greenspoon himself was about fifty years of age and larger than Bonnie had expected. Maybe it was because his picture in the paper revealed him only as a tidy grouping of head and shoulders that she was so surprised by his almost unruly size. He was well over six feet tall, with the ma.s.sive chest and muscular arms of a running back. As if to balance this exaggerated masculine image, he wore a pale pink shirt and red paisley tie. His eyes were blue, his chin soft, his voice an interesting blend of gentle authority. "I'll take that," he said, indicating the clipboard.

"I haven't finished...."

"That's all right. We can finish it together. Have a seat."

Bonnie sat down on one of the burgundy leather sofas, Dr. Greenspoon sitting directly across from her on the other. She watched while he perused the information she'd already jotted down.

"Bonnie Lonergan?"

Bonnie cleared her throat. "Yes." She cleared it again.

"How old are you, Bonnie? Do you mind my asking?"

"I'll be thirty-five in June," she told him.

"And you live in Weston, I see. Nice area."

"Yes."

"And you're married?"

"Yes. Five years."

"Children?"

"A daughter. She's three. And two stepchildren," she added, then bit down hard on her tongue. Why had she told him that?

"What's your occupation?"

"I'm a high school teacher. English," Bonnie answered, wondering at what point she could comfortably interrupt this needless exchange of information and get to the point of her visit. Still, it was probably a good idea to ease into things, to get the doctor to relax, as he was undoubtedly trying to do with her, before she began prodding him for information.

"Do you like teaching?"

"I love it," Bonnie answered, truthfully.

"That's good. I don't talk to a lot of people who are satisfied with their work, and that's a shame. Are you having any medical problems?"

"No."

"No migraines, stomach cramps, dizziness?"

"No, I'm disgustingly healthy. I never get sick."

He smiled. "Are you taking any medication?"

"Birth control pills." Was that the kind of medication he meant?

"Any childhood diseases?"

"Chicken pox." Guiltily, she touched a small scar above her right eyebrow. "My mother warned me not to scratch."

"That's what mothers are for. Why don't you tell me a bit about her."

"What?"

"I just like to get a little background on my patients before we begin," he said casually.

"I don't really think that's necessary," Bonnie told him. "I mean, I'm not here to talk about my mother."

"You don't want to talk about her?"

"There's nothing to say. Besides, you know about her," Bonnie stumbled, suddenly remembering she was supposed to be Joan's sister. Had Doctor Greenspoon forgotten who she was supposed to be as well?

"I know about her?" he repeated.

"Doctor Greenspoon," Bonnie began, "I'm Joan Wheeler's sister."

Walter Greenspoon lay the clipboard on the seat beside him. "I'm sorry. I must have mixed things up. Forgive me. Were you and Joan close?"

"Not really." Bonnie breathed a sigh of relief. At last, the truth.

"Still, you must have been stunned by her murder."

"Yes, I was."

"Do you want to talk to me about it?"

"Actually, I was hoping you'd talk to me," Bonnie told him.

"I'm not sure I follow."

Bonnie looked into her lap, then up at the doctor, then back at her lap. "I know that Joan had been seeing you."

"She told you that?"

"Yes."

Dr. Greenspoon said nothing.

"My sister had a lot of problems, doctor, as you know. She'd lost a child; she was divorced; she was an alcoholic."

Still the doctor said nothing.

"And I know that she was trying to get her life back together. She told me that she was determined to stop drinking, and that she was seeing you."

"What else did she tell you?"

"That she was worried about something. Someone, actually," Bonnie corrected, wishing she knew what the doctor was thinking. "Her ex-husband's wife and daughter," Bonnie said, holding her breath until it hurt and she was forced to release it.

"She was worried about her ex-husband's wife and daughter?" Dr. Greenspoon said, in that infuriating way he had of repeating everything she said.

"Yes."

"Why would she be worried about her ex-husband's wife and daughter?"

"I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me."

There was a moment of silence. "Perhaps you could tell me a little more."

"I don't know any more." Bonnie heard her voice rise. She fidgeted in her seat, brought her hands into her lap, cleared her throat, started again. "I don't know any more," she repeated, her voice imitating the measured calm of the secretaries outside the door. "I just know that she was very worried about them. She told me that she felt they were in some kind of danger."

"She thought they were in danger?"

"Yes. She made quite a point of telling me that she was afraid for them, and she asked me whether I thought she should contact her husband's ex-wife and warn her?"

"Warn her of what?"

"That she was in danger," Bonnie repeated in frustration. Was Dr. Greenspoon stupid or was he being deliberately obtuse? Maybe his two young secretaries actually wrote his advice column and the good doctor merely lent his head, shoulders, and stamp of male authority to the project.

"Why are you here exactly?" the doctor asked, after a pause.

"Well, I've been worrying a lot about what she said," Bonnie told him, stuttering over her words. "I mean, I didn't give it much thought initially. I just a.s.sumed Joan had been drinking, and she was talking her usual nonsense. But then, after she was murdered, I started to think more about it, and I started to worry that maybe I should be doing something...."

"Aren't the police investigating the matter?"

"I don't think they're giving it a very high priority, no."

"And you think they should?"

"I think that one woman has already died, and another woman and her child might be in danger."

"You think there's a connection between the two?"

"You don't?"

"I'm not sure what to think."

"I was hoping you could help me," Bonnie said.

"Help you with what exactly?"

"Well, if there's anything that Joan said to you that might be beneficial...."

"I can't divulge anything that was said in this office between Joan and me," the doctor explained gently.

"But if it would help save lives...."

"I can't break a patient's confidence."

"Even if the patient is dead? Even if the patient has been murdered? If there's a real danger that someone else might die?"

"I'm cooperating with the police as best I can. I've already shared with them everything I think might be pertinent."

"But the police aren't doing anything."

Dr. Greenspoon lifted his hands into the air, palms up. "I have no control over that, I'm afraid."

"Dr. Greenspoon," Bonnie began again, trying a different approach, "please try to understand. My sister is dead. She's been murdered, and no one seems to have any clue who killed her. I was hoping that maybe you might be able to tell me something that might help us find her killer."

"I wish I could," the doctor replied.

"Was Joan afraid of something? Of someone? Did she say anything about any of the men in her life? About a Josh Freeman, for example? Or a Nick Lon-" She broke off abruptly. "Someone named Nick," she said.

"You know I can't divulge that information."

"Dr. Greenspoon, the police found something in Joan's home," Bonnie began, trying yet another approach. "They found a sc.r.a.pbook."

Walter Greenspoon's expression grew quizzical. "A sc.r.a.pbook?"

"A sc.r.a.pbook about Joan's ex-husband's new family. Everything from their wedding announcement to pictures of their little girl. It was almost as if Joan was obsessed."

The doctor said nothing, obviously waiting for her to continue.