White Wedding. Jean Barrett

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      Lane could see that her handsome ex-husband was very close to telling Ronnie Bauer exactly what he thought of her pretentious state of nerves. “Please,” Lane urged him in a hurried undertone, “just humor her. Anything to get this situation over with.”

      She suddenly found the whole emotional scene excessive and exhausting. All she wanted was to go to her room and crawl into bed, even if sleep itself wasn’t possible. She was all for Ronnie’s plan, no matter who the search included or excluded, if only it achieved for them a blessed state of release.

      Jack eyed her. She could see that he, too, had no desire to prolong the strained gathering. “All right,” he agreed dryly, “we’ll look under the beds.”

      The men, Stuart with them, filed out of the lounge in the direction of the staircase. Allison followed them as far as the foyer, offering instructions for access to the attics.

      Lane found herself alone with Ronnie. The older woman spared her no word or glance. She was interested only in her brandy glass, which she had long ago emptied. Getting to her feet, she drifted off to the library to help herself to a refill.

      Lane was grateful for the solitude. And then, with a rush of guilt, she remembered Allison. She had failed to offer her friend a single word of comfort regarding her spoiled wedding. Allison must be sick about the disastrous result of what was meant to be a memorable holiday weekend.

      Intending to comfort her, Lane headed for the foyer. Tense voices stopped her just short of the doorway. Before she could retreat, she realized she was overhearing for the second time today a conversation that was meant to be private. This time it was Allison and her cousin engaged in a low, hurried dialogue from a corner just around the archway.

      “Sweetheart,” Dan pleaded kindly, “I know you don’t want to think about it, but it’s bound to come up in the investigation. Right or wrong, Chris and his brother have gotten reputations for themselves since that Dream Dance, and when questions are asked—”

      “I won’t listen to this!” Allison fiercely cut him off. “Being militant about something doesn’t mean you’d resort to—well, I won’t even name it. It’s unthinkable!”

      “I know. I’m just saying you have to be prepared.”

      “You’re like all the others. You think I’m being defensive and unreasonable. Well, I won’t stand by and see him crucified.”

      “You’re right. Allison, I’m sorry I ever brought it up. Just forget that I...”

      Lane didn’t stay to hear anymore. Remorseful, she backed away into the depths of the lounge until she was out of listening range. She had managed to overcome the longing to eavesdrop. She could do nothing, however, to control her curiosity about the mystifying exchange she had just overheard.

      A moment later Allison returned alone to the lounge. She looked distracted and unhappy as she glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “I suppose I’d better go talk to Dorothy,” she murmured. “She’ll want to know about to- morrow. Whatever’s happened, people will still need to eat.”

      Lane didn’t try to stop her when she went off to the kitchen. Nor did she detain Ronnie when she reappeared with her brandy glass, wanting to know, “Where’s our hostess?”

      “In the kitchen.”

      “Think I’ll join her.”

      Apparently Ronnie had no desire to be alone with her. That suited Lane just fine. She couldn’t think of a subject the two of them might have in common. Unless it was Jack, and she certainly had no intentions of sharing her impressions in that direction. Least of all with Veronica Bauer.

      Ronnie left. Lane was alone once more. And restless. She almost wished she had joined the men in their search. She wondered what, if anything, was happening with them. She could hear no activity overhead. The lodge was too solidly built. And the lounge, except for the ceaseless wail of the wind outside and the soft popping of the fire in the grate, was suddenly too quiet.

      Lane decided she didn’t want to remain in the room. She couldn’t bear another minute of this empty waiting. She went out into the foyer and stood at the bottom of the massive staircase, listening. Silence.

      She turned away and noticed that the door to the Viking banquet hall hadn’t been closed. The room was too cavernous to be adequately heated. Cold air from the place invaded the foyer. Lane went to shut the door, and instead found herself venturing into the great room.

      The soaring, raftered hall was a well of darkness. Her hand groped for a light switch on the wall inside the entrance. She failed to find one. It didn’t matter. There was a kind of grilled hatch in the wall that backed up to the library. Light from the library on the other side spilled a weak glow into the hall. It was just sufficient enough to permit her to make out the nearest objects in the gloom.

      Lane could see the poinsettias massed on the long table. She could also make out an enormous sideboard where Teddy Brewster had arranged a collection of Father Christmases garlanded with holly and ivy. They were another depressing reminder to her that this was Christmas Eve. The members of the house party were supposed to be in the lounge drinking punch, decorating the tree, sharing a lively anticipation for tomorrow’s wedding. Instead, they were dealing with murder.

      It wasn’t the cold in the hall that made her shiver. It was the sight of the poinsettias on the table. They were as red as blood.

      Mistake, she thought. I should never have wandered in here.

      Lane turned sharply and started to leave. Instead, she collided with a shadowy figure who had slipped in behind her. She gasped with alarm, prepared to scream the house down, as a pair of hands reached out and gripped her by both arms.

      “Easy,” muttered a deep voice.

      He was no more than a silhouette against the light from the foyer. But she recognized that rich baritone. Though she hated to admit it, she was immediately reassured.

      “Jack! You might have warned me instead of sneaking up on me like that.”

      “Sorry. I didn’t know it was you I was investigating in here until you turned around.”

      “Then you had no reason to grab me.”

      “I wasn’t grabbing. I was steadying.”

      His hands were still on her arms, and the sensation of his strong fingers scalding her flesh was decidedly unsettling.

      “Well, you can unsteady me now.”

      She could sense his reluctance as he slowly released her. “What are you doing in here, anyway?”

      “Just waiting for an all clear from the search party. Where are the others?”

      “Still playing hide-and-seek upstairs. I got tired of the game.”

      “Did you find anything?”

      “Yeah, a hell of a lot of dust bunnies.”

      She hadn’t expected otherwise. “Then can I go to my room? I don’t know about you, but I’m ex—”

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