Lauren said Nick was closed off. That statement was proof to Shea that the blonde had never known Nick the way she did. He was the most pa.s.sionate man she'd ever known, the most openhearted. And he was such a terrible liar.

* * * It was like watching a play from a darkened theater. When he moved he did so silently, taking care with each step. His jeans and black T-shirt blended into the shadows, even when he shifted positions. Most of the time he stood very still and watched.

He should be watching his old friends as the rumor worked its way through the crowd, but his eyes constantly found and held Shea.

She was beautiful. What he wouldn't give for one more night with her. One more night before he had to let her go. They hadn't had enough time together. Of all the terrible things that had happened to him in the past year, that seemed the most unfair.

Nick searched for a guilty face in the crowd, but saw none. After today he at least knew the truth: all his neighbors thought he was capable of murder. Polly, the widow, had been the only one to agree with Shea that he wasn't.

But Nick knew that anyone was capable of murder, in the right circ.u.mstances.

He stood there, silent and still, while Norman took the burgers off the grill. The crowd moved in and out of the house, filling their plates from the side dishes in the kitchen, camping out here and there to eat. Natalie and Amanda sat together at a table on the deck, the youngest of their children with them. The men stood in a knot, laughing and eating too fast. Lillian and Vernon stayed together, as usual, and they joined Polly at the well-lit kitchen table. Nick could see them clearly through the bay window.

He didn't see Lauren, though. She was probably off somewhere fixing her face. If he remembered correctly, she usually didn't go a full hour without checking her makeup.

Shea didn't eat. She stood on the deck and sipped at something in a plastic cup. Her eyes watched and catalogued everything. She listened, taking notes as surely as if she had her notebook in her hands. Her stomach was probably in knots, and she didn't ever eat much when she was excited. She had to be excited now.

While everyone else ate and visited, Nick moved closer. It was a risk, he knew, but he wanted to be close enough to hear what was said. He didn't make a sound as he stepped carefully through the shadows, ending up behind an old oak tree that shielded him from view. He couldn't see everything from here, but he could listen.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before the discussion took the turn he'd been waiting for.

"Can you believe that Sinclair woman?" Tom asked. "I thought this was finally over, and she comes around stirring things up again."

"Yeah," Carter said. "But what if she's right?"

Tom scoffed. "Please. What more do you want? A videotape? A signed confession?"

Norman remained silent. Since he was usually outspoken about any subject, he was probably biting his tongue right about now. Still, he had to allow the conversation to continue. Eventually he excused himself and stepped away. Good idea. The others would speak more clearly without the lawyer present, of that Nick was certain.

He heard soft, tentative footsteps through the gra.s.s, as more of the party joined the men. Ah, he was a subject that could bring the husbands and wives together at one of these shindigs. Murder crossed all gender lines.

"Are y'all talking about Nick?" Amanda asked. "Can you believe it? You know, that reporter says she knows who really killed Gary, and it wasn't Nick."

A voice he rarely heard at these get-togethers joined in. "Her heart's in the right place I'm sure," Polly said sweetly. "But we all know Nick is guilty."

A different tune from the one she'd been singing this afternoon. Everyone let Polly talk. After all, her husband was the victim.

"I hate to admit it, because I liked Nick very much, but there's too much evidence to ignore."

There was a murmur of agreement.

"The bat with his fingerprints, the T-shirt." She sniffled, and did not mention her husband's blood on that incriminating piece of clothing. "We all heard them argue that night, and if that's not enough there was that blood and paint the police found on the underside of his kitchen table."

It was d.a.m.ning; Nick had known that all along. If Shea didn't scare up a confession, if he didn't remember something that would lead them to the real killer ... this was it. He'd light out of here tonight. Saying goodbye would take too long and hurt too hard, so he'd just go. Where, he had no idea, but he had to go alone.

* * * Luther sat at his desk and frowned down at Grace's file of hodgepodge information on the residents of Teakwood Court. He picked up the phone and dialed from memory.

"Daniels," he snapped. "The Winkler woman."

"What are you doing working so late?" Daniels asked. "And on a weekend?" He sounded like he'd been asleep, napping on the couch.

Luther ignored the question, as well as the heated response he bit back. "Polly Winkler. You didn't find anything odd in her background?"

Daniels hemmed and hawed and finally admitted, "I didn't really check into her background."

"You always check the spouse's background, Daniels," Luther snapped. h.e.l.l, he had a headache corning on. "Always."

"We had so much evidence," Daniels whined. "Fred was about to retire and he was no help, and I was swamped. Most criminals are not geniuses, Malone, and Taggert is no different. He left a trail of evidence a rookie could've followed."

With that, Daniels hung up.

Luther stared down at the file. Grace hadn't been able to find anything on Polly Winkler more than six years old, and he was having no better luck. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. * * *

Shea had wondered who would come to her, once the rumor had circulated. She hadn't really expected Polly, who was shy and had been silent through most of the evening.

"Hi," Polly said, leaning against the rail beside Shea. "You're not eating."

Of course not. Her stomach churned unpleasantly. Anything solid that went down was likely to come back up. "I'm not hungry."

Polly nodded as if she understood. "I hear you know who killed Gary," she said, her voice soft and her eyes wide.

"Yes," Shea said confidently. "I do."

"You've been very persistent in your investigation. Very thorough. How clever of you to succeed where the police failed." Her voice remained calm, but her eyes were bright. "Tell me who it is. Gary was my husband, and I have a right to know who killed him."

"Not until I've shared what I found with the police."

"You haven't done that yet?" Polly asked softly. "I'm sure they'd like to know what you've uncovered."

Shea nodded. "Soon enough. I don't want every other reporter in town on this story until I have it wrapped up."

Polly leaned slightly closer. "I understand. But how can you make me wait for this kind of news? Tell me, was it Margaret?"

Shea's heart skipped a beat. Norman's ex-wife! "Why do you say that?"

"She and Gary were..." Polly looked away and shrugged her shoulders slightly. "I guess there's no use pretending Gary was a saint. Everyone knows he wasn't. After he died I found these terrible pictures."

"Pictures?" Shea said, unable to hide the excitement in her voice.

"I should've burned them, I know," Polly said contritely. "They were proof that Gary was not a faithful husband. They were tangible evidence that I failed miserably as a wife."

"You still have the pictures?" Shea grabbed Polly's arm in her excitement. "Can I see them?"

Polly seemed reluctant. She looked down at her feet and pursed her mouth. "They're quite scandalous."

"Please," Shea whispered.

Polly lifted her head and looked at Shea as if she were still trying to make up her mind. "Well," she finally sighed. "I suppose."

They didn't walk across the deck and through the crowd, but took the most direct route-through the house, out the front door and across the street. They had to step past kids on their tricycles and bigger kids throwing a baseball by the light cast from the tall streetlamps.

Polly's front door was unlocked, and they went in. Walking through the door took them into a small foyer, and Shea followed Polly into the living room.

"Have a seat," Polly said, gesturing to a chair by the window. "I'll be right back."

Shea sat in the same comfortable wing chair she had occupied during her interview earlier that day. Polly was not all that old, but her living room had an old-fashioned feel to it, like an elderly lady's visiting parlor. The furnishings were deep green and shades of red, and there were knickknacks everywhere. Ceramic figurines of animals of every kind decorated the room.

On the table beside Shea sat a good-size philodendron in a ceramic pot, a small reading lamp, a doily and a sandstone coaster.

"I'm going to put on water for tea," Polly called from the kitchen, "while I round up those pictures. I'm not sure exactly where I put them."

"No tea for me, thanks," Shea called out.

"Don't be silly," Polly said from the kitchen. "I have a microwave. We'll have hot water in no time."

Shea tapped her foot nervously on the floor. Margaret! If she hadn't been so distracted, she would have thought of her this afternoon. No other man or woman in the world could distract her, but Nick turned everything upside down. Even her brain. Norman couldn't very well invite his ex-wife to an engagement party, but something could have been worked out.

Gary and Margaret. Gary and Lauren. Norman and Lauren. Sheesh, they should've named this cul-de-sac Peyton Place Court. What went on here was more interesting than any soap opera. Murder, adultery. Pictures! It was true what they said, about a picture being worth a thousand words.

"Here we go," Polly said, carrying in two cups of steaming tea. One cup was tall and decorated with violets, and that was the one Polly placed in Shea's hands. The other was a more traditional shape and was adorned with hand-painted red roses. Polly placed that cup and saucer on the table by the couch. "I'll be right back."

Shea held the warm teacup in both hands, sipped at the bitter brew and then set it aside, using the sandstone coaster. While Polly left the room Shea made a face at her back. Herbal tea.

* * * The party had begun to die down. Amanda and Natalie made excuses about getting the children inside before it got too late, and Lillian and Vernon said good-night.

So far, Nick was still the only suspect. The case against him was too great. The weapon, the shirt, the evidence in his kitchen.

The blood and paint that had been planted there. Something niggled at his brain, an idea, something that wasn't quite right. He turned, taking a small chance of being seen as he looked around the backyard for Shea. In her white sundress she should be easy to find, but he saw no sign of her.

No sign of Polly, either.

He had nothing left to lose, anyway, he thought as he ran from the woods and straight to Norman, who was nervously sc.r.a.ping off the grill.

Those still in attendance, Carter, Tom and Lauren, turned their eyes to him. Carter and Tom each took a wary step back.

Nick ignored them and gave all his attention to Norman. "Was the exact location of the evidence that was found in my kitchen ever on the news or in the paper?"

"No," Norman said, looking around to see if anyone present was running for a telephone. "It was the one bit of crucial information the police managed to keep out of the papers."

"Then how did she know?" he hissed, grabbing Norman's shoulders. "How did Polly know the blood and paint were found under my kitchen table?"

"She did?" Norman asked, setting his grill brush aside.

Tom took a step forward. "Yes, she did."

Nick looked toward the house, hoping for a glimpse of Shea through one of the big windows. "Where's Shea?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely.

Lauren licked her lips nervously. "I saw her and Polly go into the house awhile back. They didn't come back out, so I figured they went over to Polly's for a while."

Nick took off running.

Chapter 19.

S hea's feet went numb and her eyelids grew heavy. Her arms tingled strangely and it seemed, for a moment, that her body was not her own. Suddenly, she wanted a nap more than anything in the world.

Polly continued to rummage through the drawers in the kitchen, making lots of noise as she searched for those pictures of Gary and Margaret. Shea had a sinking feeling there were no pictures.

The noise in the kitchen stopped, and a minute later Polly appeared with a short stack of Polaroids in one hand. She smiled sweetly and sat primly on the couch, took a sip of her own tea and fanned the pictures out so she could see them all. She tilted her head as she studied one particular photograph.

"How was your tea?"

"Lovely," Shea said, her lips feeling thick and somehow wrong. Ack, the stuff had been awful.

Polly took another sip, set her cup aside and rose slowly to her feet. "Would you care for more?"

"No, thank you," Shea said, trying to shake her head and finding that she couldn't. More than her toes were numb.

Polly glanced down into Shea's empty teacup and smiled. "Good girl, you drank every drop."

Shea knew what had happened. She couldn't move; keeping her eyes open was an effort. But for now, her mind continued to work. "What was in the tea?"

"Sleeping pills," Polly said with a smile. "And since you were a good girl and drank it all down, I'll let you see the pictures."

Polly held out the fanned Polaroids for Shea's inspection. They were of Gary, but Margaret was nowhere to be seen. Just Gary. On his knees in the backyard, on his belly with his head bashed in, rolled onto his back, before and after he'd been painted green.

"He was a vile excuse for a human being," Polly said tersely. "No one will ever miss Gary. That's one of the reasons I married him. I knew the right time would come, that there would be someone convenient to blame his death on."

"But what about Nick?" Shea whispered. He wasn't a vile human being, he hadn't done anything wrong ... but Polly had no misgivings about using him as her scapegoat. Shea's eyes drifted closed. She tried, but could no longer keep them open. "Not fair."

"Poor Nick, he will be quite distraught when you're dead, I imagine."

Nick. He'd been watching from the woods. Did he know that something was terribly wrong? Or was he still waiting for the murderer to make his move? Shea felt herself slipping into darkness, but she didn't want to go. Not yet.

"They'll know," she said softly. "You won't get away with murder twice."

Polly was not concerned. "You came over here to discuss the case, distressed that your amateur sleuthing turned up no other suspects. You decided that Nick was guilty after all, and were so upset I suggested that you stay and rest until you'd composed yourself. While I was across the street, collecting my ca.s.serole dish and saying a long and leisurely good-night to my hosts, you found my sleeping pills and took them." She tsked. "What a silly, silly girl."

Polly lifted Shea's uncooperative arm and wrapped her fingers around a small plastic prescription bottle. Fingerprints. That ch.o.r.e accomplished, she carefully placed the empty bottle on the table by Shea's empty teacup.

If Shea could open her eyes, maybe she could force herself to stay awake a little longer. But she couldn't open them, and no matter how hard she tried, the darkness crept steadily onward.

"And besides," Polly whispered, "I've already gotten away with murder twice. My first husband was as wretched and expendable as Gary, only I didn't know it when I married him. I had to find out the hard way. No one will miss either of my dearly departed husbands," she hissed. "But I have a feeling Nick will miss you. So sad. You should have minded your own business."