Isabel e lives on Ile-des-Soeurs, a smal chunk of land in the St. Lawrence owned for generations by the gray nuns, but recently colonized by an order of Yuppies. A "mixed use" community the island's condos, town houses, private homes, and high-rise apartments are tasteful y integrated with tennis clubs, strip mal s, bicycle paths, and careful y tended green spaces. The island is connected to the south shore via the Champlain Bridge, and to Montreal by two smal bridges.

Isabel e's condo is on the top floor of a two-building complex at the far northern tip. Fol owing the failure of her third marriage, she signed divorce papers, sold her home and al its contents, and sal ied forth to the clean-slate Ile-des-Soeurs. The only belongings she brought along were her treasured CDs and photo albums.

Wanting something in keeping with her new "what the hel " mind-set, Isabel e had chosen a safari theme. Her decorator had blended natural fabrics that looked like they'd been approved by the World Wildlife Fund with simulated leopard and tiger skin. The wal s were hung with animal prints, and a col ection of African carvings dotted a glass-topped coffee table, the legs of which resembled elephant feet. The king-sized bed in the master suite was swathed in a canopy of mosquito netting.

Kit was enthral ed, or at least appeared to be. As Isabel e gave us a tour he asked question after question about the origin of each of her possessions.

I wasn't sure of the depth of his interest, but was pleased at his social acumen.

It was not the decor but the view that captivated me. One guest was stil expected, so after Kit and I had been issued drinks and had met the other attendees, I stepped onto the balcony to take it in.

A light rain was fal ing, and across the river the skyline twinkled in every color imaginable. The mountain loomed over the buildings of Centre-vil e, massive and black. I could see the lights of the cross high up on its flank.

From inside I heard the doorbel sound, then Isabel e cal ed my name. I took one last look and went inside.

The final diner had just arrived and was handing his trench coat to Isabel e. When I saw his face my jaw dropped in surprise.

Chapter 14

"Vous?"

It was not one of my more adroit openers. I shot Isabel e a "just wait til later" look, which she ignored.

"Oui. You are surprised, Tempe?" She beamed. "I said you two had met in an informal way. Now I wil official y introduce you."

The journalist extended his hand. This time it held no mike, and his look was friendly, not the stunned surprise I remembered from our encounter outside the Vipers' clubhouse.

"Tempe, this is Lyle Crease. I'm sure you've seen him on television.

I could place the face now. He was an investigative reporter.