"So you never used condoms when you slept with Celia?"

"No," he said as if puzzled.

'And, considering her history, you weren't afraid of catching AIDS or something?"

"How could you say that about Celia, that she would have something terrible like that! I would have been proud for her to be the mother of my children, if she could have them. I would never have insulted her by suggesting that she could have something like that." His voice was filled with outrage and disdain at my suggestion.

Now this is is a fool, I said to myself. a fool, I said to myself.

"I think you should know something. I found out this afternoon that Annette Sampson is dead. The cops say that she killed herself, and that she killed Celia."

He put his hands over his face, shaking his head from side to side as if absorbing in small doses what I'd just told him.

"No," he said. "I don't believe that. Annette didn't kill Celia. She loved Celia, why would she kill her?"

"I don't know, but that's what the police are saying."

He dropped his hands from his face. "They're wrong." He stared at his soda, playing with the straw and finally pushing it away. "Celia and I spent New Year's Eve together. I left her early in the morning, and then somebody killed her, but it wasn't Annette."

"Do you have any idea who did?"

"No."

"Was she expecting anybody after you left?"

"She just said she hoped this year would be better than last year, and she would see me later on. That's all she said, and the next thing I knew she was dead."

He shook his head in a sad, weary motion. "Cecil said you were the last chance."

"Last chance?"

"The last chance to find out who killed his mother. Celia told him about you, too. The same way she told me, that you were her used-to-be-best-friend. It was just you and him that was left over from her life. You two were the only ones she ever mentioned to me."

I was puzzled. "Me and him, meaning me and Cecil?"

"No. Him. Him. That man." He looked at me strangely, as if I should know who he was talking about. "She never told me his name. It was the man she lost her cherry to when she was in high school. The man who she said treated her like nothing and then tried to make up for it when he saw her again. She always said she was a little bit in love with him, but not much because she was in love with me," he added proudly, as if trying to prove something to himself. That man." He looked at me strangely, as if I should know who he was talking about. "She never told me his name. It was the man she lost her cherry to when she was in high school. The man who she said treated her like nothing and then tried to make up for it when he saw her again. She always said she was a little bit in love with him, but not much because she was in love with me," he added proudly, as if trying to prove something to himself.

'And she never told you who this man was?"

"She said he was an important man now. Big-time. Someone who knew a lot of people and had a lot of influence. She used to say he had respect. Big respect. And that if he could have, he would have helped her again."

"What did she mean by that?" I asked him, but he shrugged, and I wasn't sure if that was all she said or if he was simply tired of talking about it. He looked tired and scared. I wasn't sure why.

'And you don't think this man could have had something to do with Celia's death?"

"She only mentioned him once. We were talking about our past, and I asked her who she had done it with the first time in high school. She was fourteen and he was seventeen. She said she'd been seeing him for a while, but it was over now for good, and that was all she said." He paused for a moment as if still trying to figure out what all this meant, and then added something I knew.

"If Celia didn't want to talk about something she didn't talk about it. When the letters started coming, she said the letters might have something to do with him, and then that was that. She went to Annette with them, then she was going to go to you, and then she was dead. Can I go now?" he asked, as if he were in school or still lying on my floor with my cell phone up against his head.

When I told him he could, he beat it out of that dirty little cafe like his tail was on fire. I ordered another cup of lousy coffee and thought about what he'd just said.

Him.

Who had she had the biggest crush on? It had been one of the three of them, that much I knew. Larry Walton. Drew Sampson. Clayton Donovan. They had run the school and maybe one of them- or all-had slept with her. But only one had been her "first time," as Dawson put it. What did that past have to do with this present?

A B C D.

A for Annette or Aaron. B for Brent. C for Chessman. D for Drew.

Once a chess player always a chess player.

But hadn't he agreed to go with me to the cops on Monday? Or was that part of his plan, too? Celia Jones had been the only person who knew the truth about their relationship. But maybe there had been another. Maybe Annette Sampson knew something, too. The thing that she had planned to tell me before she was murdered.

Drew Sampson hated Celia Jones, there was no doubt about that. But could their past have been intertwined in ways that n.o.body knew? Could his feelings have run deeper than anybody guessed? Could he and Chessman be in it together?

A B C D.

Or did those letters mean nothing at all?

Annette might have had an alibi for that morning. Rebecca Donovan might have seen or spoken to her then or the night before, and knew more than she should have. One thing I was sure of, she didn't know that Annette Sampson was dead, and that would give someone an advantage. Someone she might trust. Someone who knew where to find her. The hair stood up on my neck then, like it does when a breeze hits it wrong or somebody evil walks across my grave. Rebecca Donovan was in danger, I was sure of that now. I had to let her know it before she became his victim, too.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

I went back to my office went back to my office and called Rebecca Donovan. Her answering service told me she was out of town, which I already knew. I told the woman who answered the phone that it was a matter of "life and death," and she promised to relay my message "when Ms. Donovan called," but I was sure it wouldn't be relayed with the proper urgency. and called Rebecca Donovan. Her answering service told me she was out of town, which I already knew. I told the woman who answered the phone that it was a matter of "life and death," and she promised to relay my message "when Ms. Donovan called," but I was sure it wouldn't be relayed with the proper urgency.

My only chance of warning her was to tell her in person, which meant I'd have to find out wherever the h.e.l.l she was in Connecticut and either convince her to come home or ask her to alert the proper authorities. I couldn't remember the name of the town, although I was certain that it started with an 'A," so I tried to access a map of Connecticut on the Net, but the dial-up service on my old-a.s.s computer took so long, I decided to use Jamal's computer at home. Friday night was a late night for my fish fry place, so I picked up a sandwich, fries, and a tossed salad to make me feel virtuous and headed home. After I'd eaten, I went through Jamal's geography software and scrolled through Connecticut cities and towns, until I found one that sounded familiar: Ashton, Connecticut. Population 2,100, founded in 1710.

The town was in the eastern part of the state, about a three-hour drive from Jersey. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel like forgetting the whole thing, and spending my Sat.u.r.day morning doing nothing, like I usually do, but if something happened to the woman, it would be with me for the rest of my life. Besides that, I'd get a chance to test out my new car on a serious road trip. If I left by seven, I'd be there around ten, a decent enough hour to drop in on somebody with bad news. I would offer a shoulder to cry on along with any a.s.sistance I could, treat myself to lunch at a country restaurant somewhere, and be back home in time to take Jamal to Red Lobster. I got directions from MapQuest (Jamal would be proud of me!), took a warm bath, and was in bed by eleven. Sleep didn't come easily, though. I woke up at four in the morning with a dozen what-ifs racing through my mind.

What if Annette had told Rebecca what she was planning to tell me before she was murdered and her killer knew it? Annette had told Rebecca what she was planning to tell me before she was murdered and her killer knew it? What if What if he was trying to get to her before she found out about Annette? he was trying to get to her before she found out about Annette? What if What if he had killed her already? he had killed her already? What if he What if he was still there? That last what-if made me jump up in the middle of the night and drop my .38 into my Kenya bag. was still there? That last what-if made me jump up in the middle of the night and drop my .38 into my Kenya bag.

Drew Sampson was on my mind when I unlocked the safe where I keep it, and Larry Walton wasn't far behind, although I didn't want to believe it was him. He had always seemed like a nice man, but anyone can change from good to bad to worse. I wished now I'd gone ahead and called his ex-wife again to verify where he was when Celia was killed. Maybe he had gambled on my not doing it. His business depended on knowing what people would and wouldn't do. Maybe he had given me the number a.s.suming I wouldn't call.

At this point, I didn't know what what the truth was about anybody- not Drew Sampson or Larry Walton. What I the truth was about anybody- not Drew Sampson or Larry Walton. What I did did know, though, was that a cell phone up against the back of the head wouldn't fool either of them. I don't like guns, but I needed to be able to protect myself and anybody else who needed protection. know, though, was that a cell phone up against the back of the head wouldn't fool either of them. I don't like guns, but I needed to be able to protect myself and anybody else who needed protection.

Later that morning, I put a slice of leftover fish into the microwave, made some strong coffee, and hit the Parkway with Ca.s.sandra Wilson and Mary J blasting from my CD player. It started snowing around eight-thirty It was a slushy mess, melting before my wipers could hit it good, but it was sticking to the road. There was no traffic; anybody with good sense was still in bed, and I drove cautiously, fearful of sliding. Jamal would never forgive me if I wrecked our new car.

Snow was coming down hard by the time I got to Hartford, and the roads were dangerously slippery. I don't have much experience driving in the snow. In the city, it turns to mush the moment it hits the ground. It was Sat.u.r.day, so the snowplows were taking their sweet time getting out. If the roads got worse, I'd probably have to check into a motel. More than likely, though, Rebecca Donovan would offer to put me up for the night, and that meant I'd have to call Jake and ask him to let Jamal stay with him. I hadn't spoken to Jake since my last visit. Maybe it was pride or just old-fashioned stubbornness, but I was determined to wait for him to call me.

I thought about him as I drove. The snow falling softly on my windshield and Ca.s.sandra's sensual, mellow voice reminded me of the tenderness I've always felt for the man. With or without Ramona Covington, there would always be a place for him in my heart. The question was, how big a place would it be and would anybody else ever fill it?

Jake was on my mind as I pa.s.sed the sign for Ashton and pulled into a 7-Eleven for gas. In Connecticut, as in most other states beside Jersey, you can pump your own gas, so after I'd filled my tank I went into the store to pay and check the phone book for Donovan; I hoped they were listed. There was a C. Donovan on Ebbets Road, and I a.s.sumed that was her. I called the number, but n.o.body answered. I hoped Rebecca hadn't changed her mind and gone somewhere else. Or that somebody hadn't reached her before me. I didn't want to think about that.

"Getting bad out," the man behind the counter said when I paid for the gas. He had a chiseled, thin face with the hint of a beard and an elfish grin. He looked too old to be working at a convenience store in weather like this. I made a mental note to check the status of my SEP/IRA.

"Yeah, it's coming down."

"You new to these parts?"

'Actually I'm looking for a friend."

"Donovans?"

I had to smile and was tempted to say "no" just to throw him off. "Yes, do they live far from here?"

"Ebbets Road. Right down the road. Judge Donovan used to come in here all the time to pick up the New York Times New York Times when he was with us. Not too many folks here take the when he was with us. Not too many folks here take the New York Times New York Times every morning, but he was in here like clockwork, every day at eight every morning, but he was in here like clockwork, every day at eight A.M. A.M. to pick up his paper. She, the missus, came in here this morning to pick up some rock salt, though. Nice lady, Mrs. Donovan. Shame what happened." to pick up his paper. She, the missus, came in here this morning to pick up some rock salt, though. Nice lady, Mrs. Donovan. Shame what happened."

"Yes it was," I said, thankful that she was home, but wondering why she hadn't answered the phone. At least she was alive this morning.

"Nice people," he added again.

"So, has anybody else stopped by to get gas, somebody who might be looking for them?" I asked.

"Somebody from out of town looking for Mrs. Donovan?" His tone said that "out of town" was a euphemism for "black person." "Not on a day like this."

"How do I get to Ebbets Road?" I asked as I slipped the change from my twenty into my bag.

"She didn't tell you?" His eyes were suddenly suspicious. "The roads around here are tricky. Most folks give their guests directions."

"She did, but would you believe I left them on the kitchen table, along with her number!" I squeaked out a silly-little-me giggle.

"Not hard. Stay on this road about six miles. Take a left on Rankin Road, then turn right on Ebbets. Name's on the box. It's green, I think."

I thanked him, went back to my car, and cautiously pulled onto the road. A snowplow trudged ahead of me, and I was grateful for that. It was snowing so hard, I could barely see the road.

What if he was still there?

I took the left onto Rankin Road and then on to Ebbets Road with a sense of foreboding.

It was a beautiful country road, and under different circ.u.mstances, I would have enjoyed the view. The road was narrow and curvy, and the trees hanging over the road were heavy with snow, and looked as if they belonged on a Christmas card. The houses were set back from the road, but I easily spotted the Donovan's bright green mailbox and pulled to the curb. It was a small, white house with green shutters that matched the mailbox. Snow had piled up high in the driveway, and several lights were burning in the living room; smoke drifted from the chimney.

But there was still a chance that somebody was with her, a surprise visitor sitting on the couch, sipping the fresh coffee she'd made, finding out what she knew before he did what he'd come to do. A black Mercedes-Benz with Jersey plates was parked in the driveway. It could be hers, but if she'd had enough foresight to buy rock salt, she would have had enough to park her car in the garage. I placed my gun near the top of my bag, strewing some stray Kleenex over it so I could get to it quickly, then trudged up the snowy driveway.

The porch was small, but large enough for an old-fashioned swing, which made eerie squeaks as it swung in the cold wind. The curtains in the window nearest the door were open, and I glanced inside. A fire blazing in the fireplace radiated a warm coziness. But the room was empty, and I felt that intuitive sense of dread, which has warned me of danger more times than I care to remember. I thought again about leaving while I could, maybe contacting the local police department. But recent run-ins with city departments had left me wary of sharing my theories until I had hard evidence to back them up.

But then Rebecca came into the room, and gave the fire a poke. She settled into a large comfortable-looking rocking chair, which looked like it might have been the favored chair of her late husband. She was dressed in an elegant black robe that clung to her body like silk, and seemed strangely incongruous with the setting. I watched her for a moment then pressed the doorbell. Startled, she glanced toward the porch, and I waved from the window.

"Mrs. Donovan, I'm sorry to bother you, I hope I didn't startle you," I said when she opened the door. She stared at me blankly, not speaking.

"I'm Tamara Hayle," I said quickly, fearing she didn't recognize me. "We spoke several days ago?"

"Why are you here?" There was no expression in her eyes.

"I'm afraid I have some very sad news. I tried to call you, but your answering service wouldn't give me your number, you don't have an answering machine, and I felt it was very, very important that you know."

Truth was, I was beginning to wonder how important it really was. Had I made a mistake?

"Come in," she said as if it had suddenly occurred to her that I was standing outside in the snow. She took my coat and hung it in the closet. I set my Kenya bag on the coffee table in front of the couch and moved closer to warm myself by the fire. Her manner surprised me.

The blazing fire, chintz curtains, and matching upholstery gave the place an ambience of homey comfort. There was a stairway on the side of the room that led to what I a.s.sumed were the upstairs bedrooms, and a door that was ajar probably led to a kitchen. Yet there was something unsettling about the room. For one thing, the photographs that had been in the Newark house were here as well. I wondered if she kept duplicates, one for each home. There was one thing, however, that was clearly not a duplicate. The black porcelain urn with the golden lid that I had admired before sat on a pedestal close to the rocking chair.

So she carried it around with her, this urn with her husband's ashes. Did she set it beside her bed at night? Or across from her in the dining room or kitchen?

"What brings you here, Ms. Hayle?" The cold distance that had been in her voice before was back.

But what did I expect, showing up on this woman's doorstep in the middle of a snowstorm. I was probably lucky she let me in at all. I got right to the point.

"Something terrible has happened, that I thought you should know about, and I wanted to tell you as soon as I could. First of all, is there anyone else here?"

She paused a moment. "No." She glanced at the urn, and I wondered if that was the presence that had put the hesitation into her voice.

"I saw the black car-"

"That's my car. It's a one-car garage. I park Clayton's Porsche in the garage."

Did she put his ashes in his car and drive around? Talk to him as "he" rode beside her?

"Oh, I see," I said. "Well, I have some very sad news for you. You may want to sit down," I started slow, took a deep breath. "I thought you should know as soon as possible that your friend, Annette Sampson, has pa.s.sed away. Actually, I had an appointment to see her on Friday, and when I visited her home the police were there. They think that her death occurred sometime Thursday, but her body was found by her husband on Friday morning. I'm so sorry to be the one to have to tell you this. Actually, I was-"

I stopped midsentence because there was no reaction from her, nothing at all. Could this be a form of grief? I wondered.

'And you came all this way in this weather, all the way up here just to tell me that? Or is there something else?"

I thought then about Aaron Dawson's reaction, the hands over his face, the way his body shook.

"Yes. I thought you should know."

"What was your appointment with her about?" There was warmth in her voice, but there was also cunning as if she wanted to pry something from me that I didn't want to tell.

'A personal matter."

She glanced at the urn, and then, as if she realized how odd her reaction had been, she tried again, covering her face with her hands as if weeping. "Oh, poor Annette. I'm so sorry to hear that!"

Perhaps I was judging her too harshly. Maybe it had taken that long for it to get to her, for her to understand my words.

"Yes. I was sorry, too."

We sat there in silence, the gaze of both of us drawn to the crackling fire. I risked a glance at her. "You don't get lonely here?"

"I like it here by myself. People take me from my thoughts."

And your memories, I thought. I could see through the window that the snow was falling harder. A sheet of white covered the picture window in the dining room. It was painfully clear that any hope I had of her offering me shelter from the storm was out of the question. Best for me to get on the road as soon as I could. I stole another glance at Rebecca, still puzzled by her response to Annette's death and the odd mood that had overtaken her.