“I never trust a woman who gets all her muscles at the health club and only uses them as an accessory to her wardrobe,” Tessa announced, flexing her own arms, sinewy from years of hammering on stone and metal.

I laughed and waved at her as she climbed into her pickup—one of those fancy modern ones with leather seats, air–conditioning, and perfect suspension. Seen next to it, the Skylark looked more decrepit than ever. I felt another unwelcome twist of jealousy. I wouldn’t have traded either of my parents for the wealthiest tycoons in the West, but every now and then I wished my legacy had included more than the five–room bungalow whose sale after my father’s death barely covered his medical bills.

The thought of Abigail Trant made me wonder if she’d played a role in sending Alex and Murray to me. Something about my operation had roused her full interest. Maybe she’d gone to Teddy. Playing with his tie as they dressed to receive their important guests: Teddy, you know that woman that BB is so riled about? I think she’s worth helping. Let’s send her some work. So maybe I should think about the offer more carefully. At least find out if Frenada really was harassing Lacey Dowell.

When I got to the apartment I ran upstairs to call Mary Louise’s house. Emily answered, saying Mary Louise had already left for our picnic.

“That’s okay. It’s your expertise I want right now. Do you know where Lacey Dowell is staying while they’re shooting Virgin Six?”

“You’re not trying to prove she committed some kind of crime, are you?” Emily demanded.

“No. Someone was saying an old friend of hers was harassing her. I want to talk to her doorman and see if it’s true.”

She thought it over and decided it was an innocuous enough reason to reveal her heroine’s whereabouts: a suite at the Trianon, a luxury hotel on the tip of the Gold Coast that overlooks the cardinal’s residence on one side and Lake Michigan on the other. A nice change from the corner of North and California, where Lacey had grown up.

“Thanks, honey. You’re not coming out with us this afternoon? Mr. Contreras is going to provide the food.”

She mumbled something about having to see her father. “He’s got a new girlfriend. He wants us to be friends before I leave for France.”

“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” I reminded her.

“Yeah. I guess. Anyway, I’m flying on Wednesday, so I might as well tell him good–bye.”

I don’t suppose you ever outgrow the hope that your parent, however vile and violating he may have been, will magically turn into someone who cares about you. I turned sadly to join Mr. Contreras and the dogs in my car.