Brownie and Beanie, makeup and wardrobe, were never far from Sinatra’s side. Charlie looked to confirm that Frankenheimer wasn’t anywhere near calling “Action,” then walked up the grassy slope to the actors. The sun was strong. He felt every drop of his steady diet of bourbon; his headache conjured a Buddy Rich bass drum solo. He had his own lighter and didn’t need Beanie’s, but he felt conflicted about now being yet another member of the retinue.

It had already been a rough morning. Outside the Miramar, as Charlie and Margaret waited for the valet to bring their rental car around, Detective Meehan had materialized like Harvey the rabbit, a cigarette in his mouth and a porkpie hat on his head. A coffee stain marred his loud red tie.

“Congressman and Mrs. Marder!” he barked in greeting.

“Je-sus, you scared me,” Margaret said, taking a step back and putting her hand on her heart.

Meehan ignored her. He pointed a stubby finger at Charlie. “That Kennedy boy might be protecting you right now, but once you’re of no more use to him, he won’t care if we arrest you for Miss Bridgewater’s murder.”

“So I killed her and then I called you to show you her corpse in the trunk of my car?” Charlie said dryly. “Makes perfect sense. You’re a regular Ellery Queen.”

“Well, then, who killed her?” Meehan asked.

“Good God, I don’t know,” Charlie said. “But what possible motive would I have?”

“I don’t know yet,” Meehan said. “But I’m going to find out.” And with that he threw his cigarette on the driveway, ground it into the pavement with a worn-down heel, and stormed off with his trademark panache.

“Quite the unlicked cub,” Margaret said, reaching a hand up to massage Charlie’s neck. “We’re going to find out who did it.” She tried to sound reassuring as the valet pulled up with their car. “We’re going to find out who killed that poor girl.”

After that uncomfortable morning confrontation, Margaret cabbed solo to a Universal Pictures soundstage where she watched a flock of ravens rip apart an ingenue.

Margaret’s motivation was no mystery—she missed zoology and, more to the point, she missed accomplishing something other than tending to the needs of Charlie, Dwight, and Lucy. So she’d taken Symone LeGrue up on her invitation to visit the set of The Birds.

“It’s going to be a hellish day,” LeGrue told Margaret at the security gate after the cab dropped her off. She was holding a clipboard in one hand and had a raven sitting on her shoulder; it cawed a strange hello at Margaret.

“‘Quoth the raven,’” Margaret said.

“This is Archie,” said LeGrue. “He absolutely loathes Rod Taylor, so I’m keeping watch on him today. He happens to love me and does anything I say.”