Celebrity in Death

would end up dead in under an hour.
    She dimmed the lights, took the chair she’d had that evening, and tried, again, to bring it back.
    She’d been focused on the screen, but Roundtree had never been far away. Seated near during the show.
    People laughing, or calling out remarks. She closed her eyes, heard Mavis’s wacky giggle, Andrea’s voice making some comment. But when? When?
    She couldn’t be sure.
    Lots of laughter—gurgles of it, shouts of it, groans of it. Roarke murmuring in her ear when Marlo fumbled her prop weapon during a take.
    All right, not what she heard then, there was too much of it. What hadn’t she heard.
    No comments from Harris, at least none that had reached the front of the theater. None from Valerie, Preston, Steinburger. Again, not that she’d heard. Nothing from Connie after the first few minutes.
    Julian? He’d said something, his voice slurred from the wine. Early on, she thought. Maybe.
    She brought up the lights again, studied the layout. A good-sized room, the sloped floor allowing every chair or sofa a good, unobstructed view of the screen. One exit on the side, and the main in the rear.
    Easy in and out, and they hadn’t been seated in a tight group. People had spread out, and as Roundtree had drawn both her and Roarke to the front, seated them, she hadn’t seen exactly where everyone settled.
    She pulled out her notes, did a rough outline from the statements of seating arrangements. Dimming the lights again, she tested by sitting in each area, getting the angles, the views.
    Interesting, she decided, but a long way from conclusive.
    She left the theater for the roof.
    She took the elevator. The killer would have, she thought. The quickest way, a way least likely to be seen by other guests or staff. Direct to the rooftop lounge.
    Two minutes or less, then out to the pool.
    Harris, pacing? Smoking her laced herbals, drinking. Argumentative, threatening, bitchy.
    Had the killer argued with her? Impossible to say, or, if so, if the argument had been brief or protracted. The fall, the decision. Drag her in, search the evening bag. Get the bar rag, use the pool water to wipe up the blood, toss the rag in the fire. Take the elevator back down.
    Minutes really. It could have taken only minutes. Hardly more than a quick run to the john. Why would anyone notice?
    Eve looked up. The dome had been partially opened. A nice October night, but …
    Curious she went downstairs again, hunted up the house droid.
    “Question. This time of year is the pool dome generally opened or closed?”
    “Oh, closed. Ms. Burkette uses the pool every day—or did. It’s been a warm autumn, but she likes to keep the dome heated, the water very warm. And the mechanism needs to be seen to.”
    “For what?”
    “It sticks off and on. It doesn’t close completely unless you turn it off then on again when it sticks. She was going to have someone come out and fix it, but since the night of the party, she hasn’t used the roof. No one was allowed up there.”
    “Did anyone else know about the trick to close it?”
    “Mr. Roundtree, of course, most of the staff, the pool maintenance crew.”
    “No one else?”
    “Not to my knowledge, no.”
    “Okay, thanks.”
    So the killer opened the dome, Eve thought as she drove home. If Harris had opened it, why close it? Or try to. The information bumpedConnie down the list. If she’d wanted it closed, she knew how to make it close.
    The killer hadn’t. Maybe hadn’t noticed it hadn’t closed completely. Just flick the mechanism and go.
    Why open it in the first place?
    Smoke, from the zoner-laced herbals. Good possibility, she decided. Maybe the killer disliked the smell, was allergic, or just wanted the fresh air.
    With her mind rolling that angle over and what it might mean, she zipped through the gates of home.
    Rain smacked at her as she made the dash to the door, and inside she found the foyer empty.
    Too quick for you this time, Scarecrow,
she thought, and deliberately shed her jacket and tossed it over the newel post. She missed doing that during warmer weather just because she knew it got under Summerset’s skin.
    Pleased with herself, she bounded up the steps and into the bedroom to change to workout gear.
    An hour in the gym, some hard laps in the pool, would loosen her body and her mind. To avoid running into Summerset, she took the elevator down, then stopped short when she saw Roarke, already sweaty, doing bench presses.
    “Fancy meeting