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   "Oh." Was that my voice, small and ill at ease? It must have been, because when I looked toward Kegan for support, I saw that his face was as red as a beet and his hands were clutched together on his lap. I wasn't the only one getting the message from Gillian. Now if I could only figure out what it meant!

   Certain it was time to stop beating around the bush, I leaned forward. "I'm here because I'm trying to figure out who killed Brad," I said.

   Relief washed over Gillian's expression. "And I'm so glad! In my opinion, the police aren't doing nearly enough. You said something about women. Other women. Do you think one of them might have killed my Brad?"

   OK, call me slow on the uptake. It took that one moment and that one phrase—
my Brad
—to make me see the light. I sat back, the better to let the icy claw in my stomach uncurl. "You're sorry Brad's dead," I said.

   Gillian's eyes brimmed with tears. Her voice teetered on the brink of hysteria. "Sorry? Of course I'm sorry. Brad was the love of my life, my soul mate. We were engaged to be married."

       moments, but luckily, Gillian didn't stay around long enough to hear me stammer out an apology that wouldn't have made any sense unless she realized I had been thinking of her as a suspect. Which, come to think of it, would have been just as embarrassing. She hopped up, mumbled something about splashing cold water on her face, and left Kegan and me to sit there in stunned silence. That's the way things stayed for a minute or so. Then he hopped out of his chair, too.

   "Come on," he said. "Let's go have a look around before she comes back."

   "You're kidding me, right?" He'd already started toward the door, and I had no choice but to leap off the couch so that I could clap a hand on his arm and keep him from leaving the room. "We can't just go snooping through the woman's house. That would be terrible."

   "It would be terrible if she wasn't a suspect."

   "But we don't know if she is a suspect. In fact, she might be the only nonsuspect we've met. She's the only one who actually cares that Brad is dead."

   "And I think that makes her look more suspicious than anyone else."

   In its own, crazy way, Kegan's theory actually made sense. Unfortunately, I thought about this for a moment too long. By the time I was willing to admit that he might be right and suggest that instead of ransacking the house, we conduct the rest of our interview more carefully, Gillian was back, and Kegan was saying something about finding the bathroom and heading out in the direction where she pointed.

   All of which, of course, left Gillian and me with nothing in common and nothing to talk about.

   Except Brad, of course.

   "I'm sorry for your loss," I said, and it wasn't a lie. I had never liked Brad but, believe me, I recognized pain when I saw it. Gillian might have questionable taste in fiancés, but that did nothing to ease the hurt. "If there's anything I can do—"

   "You said you were trying to find out who killed him. That's the best thing you could do for me. Do you have any suspects?"

   I shrugged. "We thought we did. Nothing's panned out."

   "So you want to know more about Brad, about his life. You think that might help you figure out who did this terrible thing to him."

   "That's right." I settled myself back on the couch, glancing at the doorway as I did and hoping that Kegan really was in the bathroom and not wandering around the house playing detective. "What can you tell me?"

   Gillian's smile was soft at the edges. "I can tell you that a lot of people were jealous of Brad."

   "You mean—"

   "That what you may have heard about him, none of it is true."

   "Except that I've heard the same sorts of things from a lot of people."

   Gillian hadn't sat down when she came in, and now she paced to the far end of the sunroom and back again. "You're talking about those women. The ones who are trying to trash his reputation."

   "They say he harassed them."

   "Like he'd need to!" For a cultured woman, Gillian's snort was monumental. "Why would a man as handsome and as charming as Brad need to beg a woman for sex? Don't you see? Those women, they said what they did about him because they were the ones who were after him. When he rejected them . . ." It was her turn to shrug. Her gesture was much more regal and dismissive than mine. "There are so many jealous people in the world. That explains what happened at the W
ashington Star
, too. Those other reporters weren't nearly as good as Brad. They weren't nearly as talented. They made up lies about him."

   "That he phonied up sources."

   "That's right." Gillian's chin was high and steady. "He told me they were jealous."

   "And you believed him?"

   Her eyes flashed and, honestly, if I wasn't so anxious to get a handle on this case, I would have let her go right on being mad at me. She deserved it for believing that line of bull Brad had handed her. But I couldn't afford to alienate her, not when I was desperate for answers.

   "It's not that I'm doubting you. Or him," I hurried to say. "It's just that . . . well, been there done that, when it comes to the cheating significant other. I know that guys don't always tell the truth."

   "Maybe that's true of some men. Brad wasn't one of them."

   Good thing Kegan chose that moment to come back in the room. I didn't know how I would have responded. Instead, I looked Kegan's way, and I was instantly sure that he'd actually been in the bathroom, that he hadn't taken a quick look around. How did I know? Nobody as honest as Kegan could look that innocent if he had something to hide.

   I admit it, I was disappointed. I didn't approve of the snooping plan, but I wouldn't have objected if he'd found something interesting. I also wasn't going to let that stop me.

   When I asked my next question, I watched Gillian closely. "What about the other women, then? The ones whose pictures are in Brad's office?"

   "You've been inside?"

   I realized my mistake the moment she asked the question and was all set to scramble with a lie about how the police had let me go to Brad's with them when they searched his home. But the next moment, Gillian spoke, and I knew I'd panicked too soon. She wasn't questioning what I'd been doing in Brad's house, she was talking about his home office.

   "We were in his office. Yes." I did my best not to sound as guilty as I felt about this. "There are pictures of six women there on the wall. You're one of them. The other five are women I've talked to. Women who say they were harassed by Brad."

   "No. It isn't possible." Gillian sank into the nearest chair. "He told me none of that was true. But he never—" She chewed her lower lip, and I knew she was trying to decide if she could trust me. When she looked at me through her veil of long, lush lashes, I knew she'd made up her mind. "He never let me in his office. He always kept it locked. He said there was nothing in there but boring papers for work."

   That explained why Eve hadn't seen her own picture on Brad's wall. He kept his office locked, and it wasn't until after Brad died and the cops looked around his house that it was left open.

   "Then I'm sorry, but he lied to you. I've talked to the other women, and they each have an alibi for the day Brad was murdered." Could I be blamed for leaving out the part about Eve? I think not. I went right on. "When we saw your picture, we didn't know who you were, and we thought—"

   "That I killed Brad?" The color washed out of Gillian's face. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "I could never. I loved Brad. With all my heart."

   I didn't bother pointing out that this was probably one of the dumbest things she'd ever done. Eventually, Gillian would figure that out on her own. For now, I had to stick to the facts. "Then maybe you can help me find out who killed him," I said.

   "Anything." Gillian clutched her hands together on her lap so tight, her knuckles were white. "Ask me anything, and I'll try to answer. If one of these other women—"

   "We don't think so." It was the first thing Kegan had said since we walked into the house. For this, I was grateful. I was feeling my way through this interview, and I didn't need to worry that he might say the wrong thing before he even realized it was wrong. I sent him a look to thank him for his help and took over before he could say another word. I remembered something Gillian had mentioned earlier.

   "You were right when you said we needed to learn more about Brad's life. Now that we know you were close, I know you're the perfect person to ask. Had he been acting odd lately?"

   Her shrug said it all. "Brad never acted normal. I mean, normal is boring, isn't it? And Brad was anything but. He was dynamic. And exciting. Though now that you mention it . . ." Her eyes clouded, and she tipped her head, thinking.

   "He told me he was going to come into some money," she said.

   "Did he say how?"

   "No. He just said it was a kind of bonus. He was very excited about it, though, so I assumed it had something to do with his work. And oh . . ." She stopped to think again. "He said something about sending a package here to the house. He addressed it to himself, he said, and I had strict orders not to open it."

   At this, I could practically hear Kegan purr with excitement, and I couldn't blame him. I, too, was captured by the intriguing idea of a mysterious package that came along with the caveat to leave it unopened. It might not mean anything at all, of course, in terms of Brad's death. Then again, it might be a significant clue.

   I scooted closer to the edge of the couch. "Has the package arrived yet?"

   "No." Gillian rose. "In light of everything that's happened, I forgot all about it until right this moment. But Martha, my housekeeper . . . if the package had arrived sometime while I was out, she would have put it on the desk in my study. Especially if it was addressed to Brad and not to me. She knows how much he meant to me."

   A fresh stream of tears poured down Gillian's cheeks, and this time, she didn't even attempt to wipe them away. "Oh, Brad!" Her shoulders heaved, and she sobbed. "I miss him so terribly. You've got to help me find out who killed him, Miss Capshaw. You have to help me find justice for Brad's killer."

   "It's what I want, too." I knew we'd get nothing else out of her, not when she was that upset, so I rose and put a hand on her shoulder. "You can help," I told her. I handed her one of my Bellywasher's business cards. "When that package arrives, give me a call, will you?"

   She looked up at me, and her eyes shone with tears. "You mean, you think there's something in that package that will tell us who killed Brad?"

   I couldn't make those kinds of promises. Instead, I told her we'd find out when the package arrived. A moment later, we showed ourselves out.

I didn't dare say a word to Kegan until we were in the car.

"So?"

   He looked out the window. "So, nothing. She was telling the truth about the package."

   I wheeled my car along the long, curving drive. "And you know this, how?"

   "Because I looked around, of course. While I was supposed to be in the bathroom. I checked out her study. And her bedroom and—"

   "Kegan!" I was appalled. I kept one hand on the wheel and pressed the other to my heart. "You didn't!"

   Kegan laughed. "Of course I did, Annie. That's what real detectives do. And we're real detectives, aren't we?"

       just that in spite of Kegan's twisted logic to the contrary, I didn't think she was really much of a suspect. She loved Brad Peterson.

   Go figure.

   And though, thanks to Peter, I had learned from firsthand experience that love could turn sour, go wrong, go bad, and just plain shrivel up and die, I couldn't wrap my brain around any scenario that would have morphed Gillian, devoted and supportive as she was, into the one who had shoved Brad into the path of that Metro train.

   Except for that wall of photographs in Brad's office, of course.

   Gillian said she'd never seen the pictures. She'd acted surprised to hear she was just another of Brad's trophies. But was she? Surprised, I mean. What if she knew about the other women? About Brad's reputation? The other women had their careers ruined by the man, but what if it was even more serious for Gillian?

   What if Brad had broken her heart?

   I knew exactly how that felt. Though I'd never plotted

Peter's demise (except in the blackest of moments, and even then, I knew it was only a stress reliever and not an actual plan), I could well imagine that a woman's hurt could grow and swell beyond anger and all the way to a hate that might make her kill.

   Was Gillian one of those women?

   It was a tantalizing thought, and I promised myself I'd consider it—as soon as I had time. Believe me, over the next few days, I didn't have time to think about Gillian or much of anything else. Not when I had Fi to worry about.

   Fi had a doctor's appointment and needed someone to watch the girls while she was gone. Jim insisted the restaurant was busy that afternoon (the daily receipts did not bear him out, but I didn't know that until after the ordeal was over) and begged me to please, please, please babysit on my lunch hour.

   Fi had to go shopping for boy's clothes and desperately wanted someone along who was focused enough to keep her out of the pink-clothes aisle and firmly in the blue.

   Fi needed moral support and a shoulder to cry on. Boy, did she need a shoulder to cry on. By the time it was all over, three days had flown by, and I was too tired to care who had killed Brad. As long as it wasn't Eve.