worry.”

The engine roared and they drove off, Angela glaring at me through the window. Watching them, I realized how cute a couple they made. Except that Angela planned to marry Joe, her high school sweetheart. Otherwise, I might have played Cupid.

TWEIVE

“DINNER?” SUSAN SQUAWKED IN DISBELIEF. SHE WASINHER manic mood again. “You’re going out with the police detective?” “No, I’m not going out with him.”

While Molly lolled in her bath, I went through my closet, trying to find something to wear to dinner. “It’s a meeting. He wants me to help him out, as sort of a consultant.” “Consultant” sounded better than “snitch.”

“I’m sure he does.” Her tone was sarcastic. “The question is, how closely will you have to work?”

“I’m serious, Susan.” I tried to sound calm.

“What? You think this is legitimate? You think Homicide normally consults art therapists?”

“I wouldn’t know.” I pulled out a gray dress and held it up in front of the mirror. Too frumpy and shapeless. And the navy was too daytime.

“About what, precisely, will you consult? Teaching watercol-ors at the Police Academy? Offering decoupage therapy to the Highway Patrol?”

“He wants my help with a case.”

“A case of what? The hots?”

“Very funny.” How did she know I was attracted to him? Had she heard it in my voice? Was it that obvious? “He wants to talk about the neighborhood. He thinks the nanny guy is local.”

“Yeah, so do I. But why is he talking to you? Why not, say, to Leslie? Or me—I live around here, too. I’ll tell you why. Because Leslie and I happen to be dowdy and married, and you happen to be stunning and single.”

Stunning? Me? I glanced in the mirror, saw definite cheekbones, symmetrical features. But stunning? “Susan, you’re not dowdy. Besides, I’m a therapist. He thinks I’ll have insights about the psychological profile.”

“Sure. That’s it. He’s taking you to a candlelit dinner because you’re a therapist. Zoe, you can’t be that naive.”

“Susan, not everything’s about sex.” I looked at my long black wool skirt. It was comfy, went with everything, had a slit up the back.

“You can’t mean that. Everything certainly is about sex. Unless it’s about food—but even food is about sex, really.”

I shifted the topic. “So you’re sure it’s all right to bring Molly over?”

“Of course. Molly’s always welcome.”

“And you really feel better?” She sounded better. Probably she was. It was a pattern with her, swinging from emotional pits to soaring heights.

“Much better. Zoe, I don’t know what happened, except that I was completely blown away by Tamara’s disappearance. But somehow I’ve got it together again.”

“Did you sleep last night?” I rifled through my sweaters. Purple? Mauve? Red?

“No, but I rested this afternoon. Tim surprised me and came back to town on the red-eye. We had ... a long lunch.” Her voice was a satisfied purr.

I smiled. “Good. I’m glad Tim’s around.” Maybe she’d feel safer now. “Maybe more ‘long lunches’ will stop the nightmares.”

“I doubt it. But they have a definite therapeutic effect. I’m much less tense. My body’s relaxed and my complexion’s cleared up. At least for now—Tim leaves again Sunday.”

“Damn. Think you’ll go crazy again?”

“I might, but not as bad. I promise. Meantime, we decorated our tree and I’ve started the baking. I’m back on track.”

“You scared me, you know. I thought you were in trouble. This didn’t seem like your normal mood swing.”

“I know. But I’m fine.” She sounded happy. Too happy. She sounded idiotic. “I’m over my crisis. I’m upset and angry like everyone. But I’m not over the edge anymore.”

“So basically, orgasms cured your breakdown?”

“Maybe. At least, they didn’t hurt.”

“What a staggering concept. Think of the implications for patients at the Institute. Instead of group therapy, we’ll hold orgies. Instead of drugs, we’ll prescribe sex.”

She laughed. “It’s worth a try. But I don’t know if it’s a cure. I still get nightmares; I just don’t react the same way. I had this dream last night where I’m in court and next to me is a blonde. Just the blonde part—her head, on the chair, staring at me. She’s got blood around her neck, and it’s oozing into a puddle on the chair.”

“Okay.”

“I’m defending the guy who decapitated her, so she’s angry. She wants me to feel sorry for her so I’ll slip up and let him hang. But, instead, I start making all sorts of puns. To the jury. Stupid puns. About not losing our heads, remaining detached when considering the body of evidence, not getting ahead of ourselves, and minding the rules