“I’m certain he was.” Each prolonged syllable she uttered was a breathlessly delivered promise of sexual debauchery, a promise Viktor knew all too well Phoebe had no intention of keeping.

He realized how nervous she was when she turned and held her arms out to him. Guessing correctly that she wanted Pooh as a distraction device, he stepped forward, but just as she took the animal, a maintenance truck that had entered the cemetery backfired, startling the poodle.

Pooh gave a yap and leapt free of her arms. The dog had been restrained too long, and she began a wild dash through the crowd, yapping shrilly, her tail wagging so wildly the pom-pom looked as if it might fly off at any moment and whistle through the air like Oddjob’s hat.

“Pooh!” Phoebe cried, taking off after her just as the small white dog bumped against the slender metal legs that supported a towering arrangement of gladiolus.

Phoebe wasn’t the most athletic of creatures under the best of circumstances. Further hampered by her tight skirt, she couldn’t reach the dog in time to prevent disaster. The flowers teetered and toppled backward, knocking into the wreath jammed next to them, which, in turn, upset a massive spray of dahlias. The arrangements were packed so closely together that it was impossible for one to fall without knocking into another, and flowers and water began to fly. The mourners who were standing nearby jumped away in an effort to protect their clothing and knocked into more of the floral tributes. Like dominoes, one basket tipped against another, until the ground began to look like Merlin Olsen’s worst nightmare.

Phoebe whipped off her sunglasses to reveal her exotically tilted amber eyes. “Stay, Pooh! Stay, dammit! Viktor!”

Viktor had already rushed to the opposite side of the casket in an effort to head off the rampaging poodle, but in his haste he knocked over several chairs, which, in turn, flew into another group of floral arrangements, setting off a separate chain reaction.

A Gold Coast socialite, who fancied herself an expert on small dogs since she owned a shiatsu, made a leap for the frenzied poodle only to draw up short when Pooh dropped her tail, bared her teeth, and snapped at her like a canine Terminator. Although Pooh was generally the most congenial of dogs, the socialite had the misfortune to be wearing Calvin Klein’s Eternity, a fragrance Pooh had detested ever since one of Phoebe’s friends, who had been drenched in it, had called her a mutt and kicked her under the table.

Phoebe, whose side-slit skirt was showing far too much of her thigh for respectability, shot between two defensive linemen. They watched with open amusement as she gestured toward the poodle. “Pooh! Here, Pooh!”

Molly Somerville, mortified by the spectacle her half sister was making, tried to hide herself in the crowd.

As Phoebe dodged a chair, the heavy gold fig leaf dangling from the links of her belt bumped against the part of her that fig leaves had been designed to shield. She began to grab for it before she was permanently bruised, only to have the slippery leather soles of her pumps hit a batch of wet lilies. Her feet shot out from under her, and, with a whoosh of expelled breath, she fell.