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“She attended the concert with a friend of mine. It was a night to remember.” Naturally Fausto supplied no further details.
At the door, he kissed my hand. “I’m so glad you practice here. It’s delicious to have music in the house again.”

We both smiled, honoring the lie. “Will you be playing Scrabble with Bendix this afternoon?”

“No. He’s going with Aurilla to visit Jojo. They’ve got to rehearse looking sad.”

“Fausto! There you are!” Vicky Chickering lumbered down the hall. “Paula wants to thank you for the fantastic ointment. Wherever
did you get it?”

“Can’t tell you, Chickie. You know it’s not FDA approved.”

As Chickie brought Fausto up-to-date on the First Lady’s arthritis, I thumbed through his guest book. Polly Mason had signed
in, loud and clear, the day she died and the six mornings before that. So Bobby had told the truth: Barnard had indeed connected
with Fausto, prince of another sort.

Chickering eventually returned to the dining room. “She didn’t even say hello to you,” Fausto remarked.

“Why should she? I’m a lowly fiddle player.” That earned an amused silence until I hit the ignition. “Let’s play together
sometime.”

“Definitely.” Fausto’s mouth turned grim as he watched me drive away.

Back at the hotel, I could hear Duncan snoring regularly as a metronome on the other side of the wall. Inspired, I practiced
mechanically for a few hours, exercising fingers as the brain grazed over craggier terrain. What had Barnard been doing at
Fausto’s? Was he aware that she had been bathing with the president? I wondered if Fausto already knew about Marvel and me
and how he would amuse himself with that information. What was Bobby after, flesh or information? I didn’t think I was worth
killing yet, but my perspective was stunningly myopic. As Maxine had said, nothing in this town was real. Everything had happened
too fast. And where the hell was Louis Bailey?

Around one, when Duncan began a major flood in his bathtub, I checked my e-mail. Surprise, a reply from the Royal College
of Music: Bendix Kaar, composition major, had left school a semester after Fausto. Never graduated. I laughed: a failed composer?
Bad news. The worst, in fact.

All this ruptured music made me curious, so I went to the Library of Congress and sifted through old microfilm of the
London Times.
Maybe a critic had gone to Fausto’s last concert. I began looking about thirty years ago, when recitals dispelled, rather
than induced, depression. Came across a review of my husband Hugo, who had not conducted Mahler properly. What a joke: even
now, this critic was still trashing heterosexuals. I hadn’t gotten a good word out of him ever. Duncan usually received honorable
mention since his sexual persuasion was titillatingly ambiguous.

Fausto had gotten a rave from our friend. The artiste was thoughtful, brilliant, daring … unbelievable. I couldn’t take the
notice at face value, not from that critic, not about Fausto. Cut to the
Observer
for a second opinion.

VIOLIN SINKS
. At first I thought it was a review.

Five partygoers aboard a cruise boat jumped into the Thames in an attempt to rescue a priceless violin which had fallen into
the water. Mr Richard Poore, a tugboat captain, apparently saved the lives of Mr Fausto Kiss, his mother Ethel, Mr Louis Bailey,
Mr Bendix Kaar, and Miss Justine Cortot by repeatedly tossing a life preserver into the current. “Silly fools,” Poore said.
“I nearly rammed the London Bridge.” The violin was not recovered. Police are investigating the incident, which occurred shortly
before dawn.

Louis Bailey?
I read the article again: as Fausto had said, a night to remember. Five people overboard? Whose violin? I inched through
several more newspapers but saw no further details of the episode. There were two more reviews of the recital, both excellent.
Apparently Fausto was best with the hard, fast stuff. I could understand his jumping afterward into a filthy river. But Justine
in her perfect makeup? Fausto’s
mother?

Almost four o’clock: time for Gretchen’s music lesson. I drove to Aurilla Perle’s house. No Secret Service today, thank God.
A maid answered the door. She had the despairing look of an un-ransomed hostage. “I’m Leslie Frost,” I said. “Gretchen’s expecting
me.”

This time the little vixen charged from the right. I caught her foot inches from my shin. “Hey! Nice to see you!” I cried,
lifting her ankle high in the air, forcing her into a lopsided reverse. “Love your boots.”

“Let go! That hurts!” she screamed.

I took her arm, swung her in a wide arc, let her fly into a divan. “Next time you go through the window,” I smiled.

For a few seconds the only sound in the foyer was that of the grandfather clock striking four. “I hate you!” Gretchen shrieked,
stomping upstairs.

I turned to the terrified maid. “Is Senator Perle home?”

Of course not. She was at the vice president’s bedside, pretending she’d rather hear Jojo rave about whales than hear herself
taking the oath of office. “Please wait here,” the maid said. “I’ll bring Gretchen down.”

“Don’t bother,” I replied, mounting the wide stairs. “I’ll find her.”

Peered into an airy room with paisley curtains, canopied bed, four television sets: Aurilla’s mission control. Passed a gym,
again with four TVs, then a pair of guest rooms with less media presence but more canopied beds. I would not be able to sleep
with all that lace hanging over my head. No sign of the girl so I climbed another round of stairs. “Gretchen?”

Her room looked like FAO Schwarz after a cyclone. Maybe she had used the walls for batting practice. Gretchen sat on yet another
canopied bed fit for a czarina. She appeared to be reading a book. “Get out of my room,” she said, not looking up.

“Your mother said you wanted to play a few things for me.”

“I don’t want to play anything. Go away.”

Couldn’t do that so I waited as Gretchen nonchalantly turned a few pages. Then the phone next to her bed rang. “I’m sure it’s
for you,” she said.

“No one knows I’m here.”

“
He
knows.”

The phone stopped midring. Gretchen kept turning pages. After a few moments we heard footsteps on the stairs. “Miss Frost?”
the maid called. “For you.”

Gretchen suddenly lunged at the phone. “Don’t answer,” she whispered, clutching it to her chest. “He’ll take you away. Like
Polly.”

I tried to smile. “Who’s Polly?”

“My friend.”

“She came here to your house?”

“Yes. She was prettier than you.”

“Miss Frost?” the maid called anxiously.

“Give me the phone,” I told Gretchen. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes you will! I know it!”

“I’m counting to three then I’m picking up downstairs. One. Two.” Gretchen threw the phone at me and buried her face in the
pillows. “Yes?” I snapped into the receiver.

“Aurilla mentioned you’d be with her daughter today,” said Bobby Marvel. “How’s it going over there?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“I enjoyed our talk last night. You’re a fascinating woman.”

“Could we pick this up some other time? I’ve got my hands full here.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have your hands full of me?”

Wasn’t this idiot supposed to be running the country? I hung up. “Did you hear that, Gretchen? I’m not going anywhere.” Her
face peeped from the pillows as I sat at the foot of the bed. “Tell me about Polly.”

“She helped with my science homework. I liked her a lot. She played in the backyard with me and Wallace and Herman.”

Wallace was the gofer. “Who’s Herman?”

“My friend.”

I kept smiling. “How do you know Polly’s not coming back?”

“Because Mom couldn’t find her anymore.”

I sat miserably through an hour of Gypsy dances. No visitors and Gretchen refused to talk further about her friends Polly
and Herman. When I returned to the hotel, a fresh bouquet of purple orchids waited on the dresser.
See you soon.
Bobby? Louis? My message light was blinking: Justine Cortot commanding me to call the White House at once and Bendix Kaar
wondering if I were free that evening. Rather than disappoint either of them, I flew to New York. Too damn muggy down here.

My accompanist blew backstage at Carnegie Hall about four minutes before show time. “Traffic was unbelievable,” Duncan cried,
heaving his garment bag over the dressing table. He began stripping. “Grab my shirt, would you?”

I stared a moment at his pink string bikini. In ten years I had never seen Duncan in anything but voluminous boxer shorts.
Fingernails had recently raked three delicate, parallel lines between his nipples. “Wildcat attack?” I asked, handing over
his pants.

“Where the hell are my cuff links?”

A knock: Justine, tousled and radiant, with Duncan’s patent-leather shoes. “You left these under the bed,” she chided.

“Oh my God! Thanks, doll!”

“And take this for your nerves.” She tucked a few pills into his palm.

Duncan had told her about his stage fright? That was one of his deep, dark secrets, buried far back in the closet along with
fantasies of becoming the next Horowitz. “Right!” he cried, sweeping into the bathroom. Within seconds the sounds of violent
intestinal disruption blurted through the green room.

I tuned my violin and ran over a few scales. “He won’t be out for a while,” I said, glancing at Justine in the mirror. She
was repairing a few minor wrinkles around her mouth. “Why don’t you go find your seat.”

Instead she inspected my gown. Moss green, clinging to all the best places. Soon two thousand people would be staring at it,
mesmerized. That was too much for Justine to stomach. “You shouldn’t have ignored my message.”

“Sorry.” I fixed my lipstick. “I find Bobby Marvel quite unattractive.”

“What
you
find
him
is irrelevant.” After I laughed, Justine tried the confidante angle. “You’ve only met once.”

“Three times. He didn’t get any better.”

Her eyes flared: panic? “Let me give you some good advice. Next time the president asks for you, move your ass.”

“Let’s make a deal. You drop my pianist, I screw your boss.”

She mulled that over for three seconds. “You screw Bobby Marvel,” Justine decided, heading for the door. “Period.”

Duncan, pale and quivering, emerged from the bathroom. “Where’s Justine?” he wailed.

“Finding her seat.”

“My head’s killing me,” he moaned, dropping to the couch. Before I could stop him, he ate Justine’s pills.

“Do you have any idea what you just swallowed?”

“Beta-blockers. I think they’re from Sweden. Justine’s an expert on that stuff.”

I tugged him to his feet as the stage manager knocked. As always, my accompanist died many deaths ’twixt green room and stage
door. He cursed me for dragging him into an arcane profession that gave him nothing but an inferiority complex. “Looks full,”
I said, peering into the auditorium.

The stage manager motioned expectantly at the two of us. For a second, terror ran wild from head to foot: I wanted to be anywhere
on earth but that stage. Then another beast, a larger one, engorged my fright. That was the demon who lived in the shadows
of the blood, who pushed me in front of orchestras and off balconies because it knew that life was sweetest when oblivion
was just a breath away. I felt my brain lock on to a violin, music: for the next two hours I would be a supercomputer with
fingers. “Try not to step on my gown, would you, Duncan,” I said, walking onstage.

Applause, warmth. The auditorium looked smaller than I remembered. Duncan managed to locate the piano bench without passing
out. I waited as he twirled the knobs a few dozen times, fussed with his music, his handkerchief: poor sod, Carnegie Hall
was no place for mere humans. Finally his eyes met mine. I smiled the secret smile that only Duncan saw. He began to play.

We got off to a better start than we had at the White House: here I wasn’t distracted by a pair of jesters in the front row
and Duncan played with the acuity of the profoundly afraid. After a few minutes, however, we began to drift. Didn’t sound
bad, but it wasn’t what we had rehearsed. Slower, fatter.… Brahms over, Duncan bowed dreamily. I walked offstage.

“That was very nice,” he said.

“Come here.” Held his face under a light: pupils dilated, slight flush. His skin felt cold. “How are you feeling?”

“I told you. Very nice.”

“Tired?”

“A little.” Yawning, Duncan turned to the stage manager. “Could you turn up the heat?”

“You mean turn down the air-conditioning, sir?”

He frowned. “Whatever makes it cold.”

“Get some coffee,” I told the man. “Duncan, drink it before I get back.”

“You know I never touch caffeine after breakfast!”

Into the auditorium for solo Bach. When I returned backstage, Duncan was puking into a garbage can.

“What are we going to do?” the stage manager whispered.

I lifted Duncan’s head. “Feeling better?”

“I think so.” He wiped his mouth. “Let’s go.”

We ended the first half with a sonata that had recently won a Pulitzer Prize. Fortunately, few people in the audience knew
the piece and it was the sort of music that sounded incorrect anyway. The composer had just died, so everyone clapped appreciatively
afterward. Duncan went straight to the couch in the green room. Justine barged in almost immediately.

“Zadinsky, that was superb,” she cried, beelining for the cadaver, pressing his hand to her cheek. Between Brahms and intermission
she had turned pinker, faster: chemical assistance. “Worn out, poor thing?”

He smiled weakly. “Just getting my second wind.”

“Got any more of those pills?” I asked. “Duncan really enjoyed his first dose.”

She ignored me. “Save some energy for me, tiger.” After many kisses, she left.

Long, testy silence. Duncan finally opened his eyes. “She was only trying to help.” When that got no sympathy, he added, “Justine’s
had a hard life.”

Who the hell hadn’t? As I was trying to focus on the second half, someone knocked. Enter Bendix Kaar, confident and sinister
in a double-breasted suit. His eyes lingered on my naked shoulders. Maybe he was just counting moles and diamonds. This being
our third meeting, he kissed my mouth.