“That’s very unprofessional,” she said. “Is right here good for my table?” She pointed to the foot of the bed.

“Perfect,” he said. “May I ask how tall you are?”

“Six-three,” she said. “The shortest of three sisters.”

The mind boggled. “You carry your height beautifully,” he said.

“Thank you. That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me about my size.”

He could not begin to guess her weight, but whatever it was, it was perfect. And all of her went very well with the long chestnut hair that spilled around her shoulders. When she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and secured it, he thought her nose and her jawline were perfect, too. And her eyes were a deep green.

She spread her sheets over the table, affixed the face cradle and patted the leather top. “You hop up here, face down, while I wash my hands. Bathroom in here?” She pointed.

“Yes, help yourself.” Stone tossed his robe onto the bed and crawled under the top sheet, settling his face into the cradle.

She returned after a moment. “Any special problems I should know about?”

“Yes, I suffered a fall onto my back on the sidewalk yesterday, and I’m pretty sore and stiff.”

“Do you suspect any skeletal problems?”

“No, I don’t think so; just muscular.”

He heard her squirt something, then rub her hands briskly together. “I apologize if my hands are cold,” she said, placing them on his back gently.

“They feel very good,” he said.

“I’m going to go over your back and shoulders lightly, and I want you to tell me if what I do makes you hurt in any particular place.” She did so. “How was that?” she asked.

“Wonderful.”

“May I go deeper, do you think?”

“Yes, please.”

She went deeper and covered everything from his neck to his heels. “Okay,” she said, holding up a sheet, “you can turn over on your back now. Do you need any help?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said, turning over.

She began massaging an arm. “Who was the masseuse who stood you up?” she asked.

Stone nodded at the bedside table. “Her card is over there,” he said. “Her phone number didn’t work.”

Celia went and got the card. “I know her,” she said. “Her name is Marilyn Martin; we both used to work at the same day spa.” She began working on his arm again. “Last I heard, she wasn’t working anymore, she’d moved into an apartment that some lawyer is paying for, guy with a funny name.”

“Wouldn’t be Bernard Finger, would it?”

“That’s it! Do you know him?”

“Only slightly. He’s the opposition in a personal-injury suit I’m working on.”