Bitter Business

say anything about coffee in either of them,” he reported.
    “I guess we’ll just have to wait until tomorrow.” I selected an eye-shadow compact at random from the bag. My entire inventory of makeup was composed of samples accumulated by my mother and passed along to me. I told myself that I liked the small sizes because I traveled so much, but the truth is that I hadn’t been to a department-store makeup counter since becoming a lawyer and saw no reason to start now. “Let’s just assume for argument’s sake that only one of the women was the intended victim. Who would have wanted to kill Cecilia Dobson? Who would have benefited from her death? Have you managed to find her boyfriend yet?”
    “I drove down to Champaign to see him yesterday. I think I told you that he plays in some kind of grunge band. They were performing in a college bar down there. I’ve got to tell you, I heard them play. It really made me feel like my dad—you know, the music’s too loud, it just sounds like noise.... Anyway, the boyfriend didn’t seem too broken up about what happened—though I’m not sure he really understood everything I was telling him. Either he’s not very bright or he’s ingested one too many illegal substances. All of which is beside the point, on account of the fact that he’s got an alibi. It turns out he was in Iowa playing a gig the day she died. The other members of his band and the guy who owned the bar where they were playing backed him up.”
    “Was she insured?”
    “The police are looking into it.”
    “So who else might have wanted to have her out of the way?”
    “Philip Cavanaugh for one. He was having an affair with her and he wanted to break it off. What if she got nasty and told him she was going to go to his wife instead?”
    “He could always have paid her off. From what you told me, she probably picked up with Philip in the first place thinking there was money in it for her.”
    “But what if she was asking for too much? Maybe little Philip decided murder was cheaper than blackmail.”
    “But then what about Dagny?” I countered. “After Cecilia Dobson died, everyone assumed that she’d just overdosed on drugs. No one would have known about the cyanide if Dagny hadn’t died. Besides, Philip didn’t have a motive to kill his sister.”
    “Why not? Maybe he resented the competition. According to what Joe’s been hearing at Superior Plating, Dagny was the real brains of the outfit. Maybe he finally got tired of being shown up by his little sister.”
    “That’s an awfully big stretch,” I protested, holding my eyes open wide and stroking on the mascara. I looked at my watch. Six minutes. I abandoned the idea of doing anything special with my hair. Instead, I gave it a quick brush and wound it up into a French twist. I thought of the scene I’d witnessed that afternoon during the Cavanaugh family meeting. “I’m not going to tell you that these guys are the Waltons. It’s actually pretty clear that they all hate each other’s guts, but Dagny was the only one who seemed to have been generally liked and respected.”
    “You know that when we’re spinning different scenarios for a motive, they all work much better with Dagny as the intended victim.”
    “Hold that thought,” I said, closing the door and squirming into the midnight-blue cocktail dress I’d bought especially to wear to Grandma Prescott’s birthday party. It was a Jil Sander, the German designer who was making a name for herself in this country with elegant, pared-down clothes. The dress was simplicity itself, a scoop neck and long sleeves, but when I’d first tried it on, it struck me that there was something almost magical in the way it was cut. I also remember thinking when I looked at the price tag that there had damned well better be. I leaned over the sink and put on some lipstick.
    When I opened the door to the bathroom Elliott rose slowly to his feet.
    “You look beautiful,” he said in a hushed voice. Suddenly my bedroom seemed very small indeed. Elliott was so close.
    “You missed a button in back,” he said. “Here, if you turn around I’ll get it for you.”
    “That’s okay,” I murmured hoarsely. There seemed to be something wrong with my voice.
    “Come on. I won’t bite,” he urged, smiling.
    Suddenly I felt prudish and silly. An overworked lawyer letting her imagination run away with her.
    But when I turned and felt his fingertips brush the nape of my neck, I knew it had