it we’re not sleeping together?”

Fletch said into the phone, “Who is this?”

It was 1:20 A.M. He had been asleep a half-hour.

“Damn you!” said Freddie Arbuthnot. “Damn your eyes, your nose, and, your cock!” The phone went dead.

It wasn’t that Fletch hadn’t thought of it.

He knew she’d washed her knees.

Twelve

Tuesday

8:30 A.M. Prayer Breakfast

Conservatory

And in the morning, the phone was ringing as he entered his room.

He took off his sweaty T-shirt before answering.

“Have you seen the papers?” Crystal asked.

“No. I went for a ride.”

“Ride? You’re unemployed and you rented a car?”

“I’m unemployed and I rented a horse. They use less gas.”

“A horse! You mean one of those big things with four legs who eat hay?”

“That’s a cow,” Fletch said.

“Or a horse.”

It took Crystal a moment more of exclamations before accepting the idea that someone would get up before dawn, find the stables in the dark, rent a horse, and ride over the hills eastward watching the sun rise, “without a thought for breakfast.”

It had been a pleasant horse and a great sunrise.

And taking the horse from the stables and bringing it back, Fletch had not seen the man in the blue denim jacket, with tight, curly gray hair, who had approached the masseuse, Mrs. Leary, in the parking lot two mornings before and asked her about the arrival of Walter March.

“I want to read you just one’graf from Bob McConnell’s story in March’s Washington newspaper regarding the old bastard’s murder.”

“Pretty extensive coverage?”

“Pages and pages. Two pages just of photographs, going back to and including a shot of the bastard at the baptismal font.”

“He deserves every line,” said Fletch. “Dear old saintly Walter March.”

“Anyway, Bob nailed you.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll just read the paragraph. First he names all the big names here at the convention. Then he writes, ‘Also attending the convention is Irwin Maurice Fletcher, who, although never indicted, previously has figured prominently in murder trials in the states of California and Massachusetts. Currently unemployed, Fletcher has worked for a March newspaper.’”

Fletch was pulling off his jeans.

He had listened to McConnell phoning in his story the night before.

“A pretty heavy tat for tit, Fletcher. Methinks you’ll not jokingly accuse Bob McConnell of first-degree murder again. At least, not in his presence.”

“Who was joking?”

“There are some pretty vicious people around here,” Crystal said.

“You didn’t know?”

“Breakfast?”

“Got to shower first.”

“Please do.”

Thirteen

9:30 A.M.

IS GOD DEAD, OR JUST DE-PRESSED?

Address by Rt. Rev. James Halford

Conservatory

10:00 A.M.

Is ANYONE OUT THERE?

Weekly Newspapers Group Discussion

Bobby-Joe Hendricks Cocktail Lounge

Fletch had breakfast in his room, listening to Virginia State Police Captain Andrew Neale questioning Lydia March and Walter March, Junior, in Suite 12.

There were the preliminary courtesies—Captain Neale saying, “I know this must be terribly difficult for you, Mrs. March”; Lydia saying, “I know it’s necessary”; his saying, “Thank you. You have my sympathy. I would avoid disturbing you at this point if it were at all possible”—while Fletch was spooning his half a grapefruit.

Junior had to be fetched from his bedroom.

“Junior’s a little slow this morning,” Lydia said. “Neither of us is getting any sleep, of course.”

“Hello, Mister Neale,” Junior said.

His voice was not as clear as Lydia’s or Neale’s.

“Good morning, Mister March. I’ve told your mother that you have my sympathy, and I hate to put you both through this.…”

“Right,” Junior said. “Hate to go through it. Hate to go through the whole shabby thing.”

“If you would just go over the circumstances of your husband’s.… You don’t mind my using a tape recorder, do you?”

Junior said, “Tape recorder?”

“Of course not, Captain Neale. Do anything you like.”

“As an aid to my memory, and hopefully, so I won’t have to disturb you again. It’s most important that we fix the timing of this … incident precisely.”

“Incident!” said Junior.

“Sorry,” said Neale. “All words are inadequate.…”

“Apparently,” said Junior.

“We’re particularly interested in.…”

“I’ll do my best, Captain,” Lydia said. “Only it’s so.…”

“Mrs. March, if you can just describe everything, every detail, from the moment you woke up yesterday morning?”

“Yes. Well, we, that is, Walter and I, were scheduled to have breakfast at eight o’clock yesterday morning with Helena and Jake Williams—Helena is the Executive Secretary of the Alliance—to go over everything a final time before the mobs arrived, you know, discuss any problems there might have been.…”

“Were there any you knew of?”

“Any what?”

“Any problems.”

“No. Not really. There was a small problem about the President.”

“The president of what?”

“… the United States.”

“Oh. What was that?”

“What was what?”

“The problem with the President of the United States.”

“Oh. Well, you see, he doesn’t play golf.”

“I know.”

“Well, you see, he was scheduled to arrive at three