“I’ve got a weakness for that kind of show. All those famous people. I love seeing what clothes they’re wearing. You just sit down,” Gladys ordered. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to get us a nice cold Coke, then we’ll roll up our sleeves and dive right in.”

As she had the first time she’d toured Gladys’s house for pre-party plans, Nell found herself bemused. Every room was tidy as a church pew and as rigidly organized as a furniture showroom floor. Magazines were fanned precisely on the coffee table, and offset by an arrangement of silk flowers in the exact tones of mauve and blues as the upholstery.

The fact that the house managed to be friendly said more, to Nell’s mind, about the occupants than the decor.

Nell sat, opened her files. She knew Gladys would bring the tea in pale green glasses that matched her everyday dishes and would set them on blue coasters.

There was, she thought, a comfort in knowing that.

She began to read over her notes, then felt her stomach hitch at the chirpy voice of the program host.

“Last night’s gala brought out the glitter and the glamour. Evan Remington, power broker extraordinaire and attorney to the stars, looked as sensational as one of his own clients in Hugo Boss. Though Remington denies rumors of a romance between him and his companion for the evening, the delectable Natalie Winston—who simmered in a beaded sheath by Valentino—sources in the know say differently.

“Remington was widowed only last September when his wife, Helen, apparently lost control of her car while driving back to their home in Monterey. Her Mercedes sedan crashed over the cliffs on Highway 1. Her body, sadly, was never recovered. Hollywood Beat is happy to see Evan Remington back in stride after this tragic event.”

Nell was on her feet, her breath short and shallow. Evan’s face seemed to fill the wide screen, every handsome line, every strand of golden hair.

She could hear his voice, clear and terrifyingly calm. Do you think I can’t see you, Helen? Do you think I’ll let you go?

“I didn’t mean to take so long, but I thought you might appreciate someone else’s baking for a change. I just made this pound cake yesterday. Carl packed away nearly half of it. I can’t think where that man puts it. Why, if I ate a fraction of what he—”

Tray in hand, Gladys stopped, her happy chatter shifting instantly to surprised concern when she saw Nell’s face. “Honey, you’re so pale. What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well.” Panic was an icy poker jabbing through her belly. “Headache. I don’t think I can do this now.”

“Of course not. Poor thing. Don’t you worry. I’m going to drive you home and tuck you right into bed.”