Her mouth was already puffy, her teeth washed with blood. Exhilaration peaked and drained at the sight. Now I could feel pain throb in my arm and I bent with the pulse of it, panting hard. The bruise was a sharp blue vertical line, red welt spreading its blood cloud under the skin. I would swear I could see a raised line where the gut had been strung along the edge of the racket. Set upon by an evil-tempered tennis buff. It was all so damn dumb. Lucky I hadn't interrupted her at a round of golf. She'd have pounded me to a pulp with her pitching wedge. My knuckles were stinging where the skin had ripped. I hoped her rabies vaccinations were up to date.

Elva began to cry piteously, adopting the victim stance when it was she who had tried to savage me! I felt something stir and I yearned to go after her again, but the truth was I hurt, and the need to tend to myself took precedence. Dr. Dunne shepherded his wife into his office. The desk clerk in the orange blazer scurried after them while I leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath. He might have been calling the sheriff's department, but I didn't much care.

In a moment the doctor returned, full of soothing apologies and solicitous advice. All I wanted was to get the hell out of there, but he insisted on examining my arm, assuring me it wasn't broken. God, did the man think I was an idiot? Of course it wasn't broken. He steered me into the hotel infirmary where he cleaned my battered hand. He was clearly worried, and that interested me more than anything that had transpired so far.

"I'm sorry you and Elva had a falling-out." He dabbed a stinging disinfectant on my hand, his gaze flicking quickly to my face to see if I'd react.

I said, "You know women. We get into these little tiffs." The irony was apparently lost on him.

"She's protective. I'm sure she didn't mean to offend. She was so upset, I had to give her a sedative."

"I hope you've got all your hand tools locked up. I'd hate to see the lady with a crescent wrench."

He began to put his first-aid supplies away. "I think we should try to forget the incident."

"Easy for you to say," I said. I was flexing my right hand, admiring the way the butterfly Band-Aid closed the cleft in my knuckle formed by Elva's front teeth. "I take it you still won't give me information on Jean Timberlake."

He had crossed the room to the sink, where he was washing his hands, his back turned. "I saw her that day," he said tonelessly. "I explained as much to the police at the time."

"The day she was killed?"

"That's right. She came to my office when she got the results of her pregnancy test."