he didn’t want to do it himself in case something
else—” She caught herself. “In case Angela doesn’t
make it. Dade Costello volunteered. Don’t move, I’ll
take a peek into the entry hall.”
Judith took another sip of brandy. Bill stepped behind the chair and began rubbing her shoulders.
“Dirk Farrar is passive-aggressive,” he said quietly.
“Winifred Best has low self-esteem. Chips Madigan
has an unresolved Oedipal complex. His father may
have abused him.”
Bill’s analyses, along with the brandy and the massage, brought Judith into complete focus. “You figured
out all that in five minutes of watching the guests
watch TV?”
“It was longer than that,” Bill replied. “The Packers
got stalled on the Bears’ thirty-eight-yard line, punted,
and the Bears made two nice pass plays before they
kicked a field goal.”
“Oh.” Judith smiled faintly. “I’m still amazed at
how quickly you pinpointed their personalities.”
“I’m guessing,” Bill said, finishing the massage.
“Ordinarily, it’d take several sessions to peel the layers
off a patient. But you’re under pressure to figure these
people out.”
“Yes,” Judith agreed as Renie returned to the dining
room.
“Angela’s alive,” she announced, “but still unconscious. Fortunately, there was no water in the sink.”
“And no cupboard door to hit her in the head,” Judith murmured. “So what happened?”
Renie shook her head. “Nobody knows. Maybe she
fainted.”
“She wouldn’t still be out cold,” Judith noted, getting to her feet with Bill’s help. “She’s either sick
or . . .”
“Or what?” Renie put in as her cousin’s voice trailed
off.
“I’m not sure.” Judith’s expression was grim as she
moved unsteadily into the entry hall, where Dirk Farrar was kneeling over Angela’s motionless figure.
Dade Costello, apparently weary from his CPR ministrations, leaned against the balustrade and used a blueand-white bandanna to wipe sweat from his forehead.
Dirk looked up. “She’s alive. Her breathing’s better.
Where the hell are the medics?”
Judith’s ears picked up the sound of the medics’
siren. “They’re outside,” she said, and staggered to the
front door.
Chips Madigan was already on the alert. “In through
here,” he told the emergency team, pointing to the
entry-hall bathroom. As the trio made their way to Angela, Chips got down on one knee and framed an imaginary shot with his fingers. “Whoa! This is good!
Medium shot, backs of uniforms looking great, equipment visible, love the red steel cases.” The director
