2
  After murdering Dr. Davis Weatherby, Vince Nasco had driven his gray Ford van to a 
service station on Pacific Coast Highway. In the public phone booth, he deposited coins 
and called a Los Angeles number that he had long ago committed to memory.
  A man answered by repeating the number Vince had dialed. It was one of the usual three 
voices that responded to calls, the soft one with a deep timbre. Often, there was another 
man with a hard sharp voice that grated on Vince.
  Infrequently, a woman answered; she had a sexy voice, throaty and yet girlish. Vince 
had never seen her, but he had often tried to imagine what she looked like.
  Now, when the soft-spoken man finished reciting the number, Vince said, 'It's done. I 
really appreciate your calling me, and I'm always available if you have another job." He 
was confident that the guy on the other end of the line would recognize his voice, too.
  "I'm delighted to hear all went well. We've the highest regard for your Workmanship. 
Now remember this," the contact said. He recited a seven-digit telephone number.
  Surprised, Vince repeated it.
  The contact said, "It's one of the public phones at Fashion Island. In the open-air 
promenade near Robinson's Department Store. Can you be there in fifteen minutes?"
  "Sure," Vince said. "Ten."
  "I'll call in fifteen with the details."
  Vince hung up and walked back to the van, whistling. Being sent to another public 
telephone to receive "the details" could mean only one thing: they had a job for him 
already, two in one day!
  3
  Later, after the cake was baked and iced, Nora retreated to her bedroom at the 
southwest corner of the second floor.
  When Violet Devon had been alive, this had been Nora's sanctuary in spite of the lack 
of a lock on the door. Like all the rooms in the large house, it had been crammed with 
heavy furniture, as if the place served as a warehouse instead of a home. It had been 
dreary in all other details as well. Nevertheless, when finished with her chores, or when 
dismissed after one of her aunt's interminable lectures, Nora had fled to her bedroom, 
where she escaped into books or vivid daydreams.
  Violet inevitably checked on her niece without warning, creeping soundlessly along the 
hall, suddenly throwing open the unlockable door, entering with the hope of catching Nora 
in a forbidden pastime or practice. These unannounced inspections had been frequent 
during Nora's childhood and adolescence, dwindling in number thereafter, though they had 
continued through the final weeks of Violet Devon's life, when Nora had been a grown 
woman of twenty-nine. Because Violet had favored dark dresses, had worn her hair in a 
tight bun, and had gone without a trace of makeup on her pale, sharp-featured face, she 
had often looked less like a woman than like a man, a stern monk in coarse penitential 
robes, prowling the corridors of a bleak medieval retreat to police the behavior of 
fellow monastics.
  If caught daydreaming or napping, Nora was severely reprimanded and punished with 
onerous chores. Her aunt did not condone laziness.
  Books were permitted-if Violet had first approved of them-because, for one thing, books 
were educational. Besides, as Violet often said, "Plain, homely women like you and me 
will never lead a glamorous life, never go to exotic places. So books have a special 
value to us. We can experience most everything vicariously, through books. This isn't 
bad. Living through books is even better than having friends and knowing . . . men."
  With the assistance of a pliable family doctor, Violet had kept Nora out of public 
school on the pretense of poor health. She had been educated at home, so books were her 
only school as well.
  In addition to having read thousands of books by the age of thirty, Nora had become a 
self-taught artist in oils, acrylics, watercolors, pencil. Drawing
  and painting were activities of which Aunt Violet approved. Art was a solitary pursuit 
that took Nora's mind off the world beyond the house and helped her avoid contact with 
people who would inevitably reject, hurt, and disappoint her.
  One corner of Nora's room had been furnished with a drawing board, an easel, and a 
cabinet for supplies. Space for her miniature studio was created by pushing other pieces 
of furniture together, not by removing anything, and the effect was claustrophobic.
  Many times over the years, especially at night but even in the middle of the day, Nora 
had been overcome by a feeling that the floor of the bedroom was going to collapse under 
all the furniture, that she was going to crash down into the chamber below, where she 
would be crushed to death beneath her own massive four-poster bed. When that fear 
overwhelmed her, she had fled onto the rear lawn, where she sat in the open air, hugging 
herself and shuddering. She'd been twenty-five before she realized that her anxiety 
attacks arose not only from the overfurnished rooms and dark decor of the house but from 
the domineering presence of her aunt.
  On a Saturday morning four months ago, eight months after Violet Devon's death, Nora 
had abruptly been seized by an acute need for change and had frantically reordered her 
bedroom-studio. She carried and dragged out all the smaller pieces of furniture, 
distributing them evenly through the other five crowded chambers on the second floor. 
Some of the heavier things had to be dismantled and taken away in sections, but finally 
she succeeded in eliminating everything but the four-poster bed, one nightstand, a single 
armchair, her drawing board and stool, the supply cabinet, and the easel, which was all 
she needed. Then she stripped off the wallpaper.
  Throughout that dizzying weekend, she'd felt as if the revolution had come, as if her 
life would never be the same. But by the time she had redone her bedroom, the spirit of 
rebellion had evaporated, and she had left the rest of the house untouched.
  Now this one place, at least, was bright, even cheerful. The walls were painted the 
palest yellow. The drapes were gone, and in their place were Levolor blinds that matched 
the paint. She had rolled up the dreary carpet and had polished the beautiful oak floor.
  More than ever, this was her sanctuary. Without fail, upon passing through the door and 
seeing what she had wrought, her spirits lifted and she found some surcease from her 
troubles.
  After her frightening encounter with Streck, Nora was soothed, as always, by the bright 
room. She sat at the drawing board and began a pencil sketch, a Preliminary study for an 
oil painting that she had been contemplating for Some time. Initially, her hands shook, 
and she had to pause repeatedly to regain sufficient control to continue drawing, but in 
time her fear abated.
  She . was even able to think about Streck as she worked and to try to imagine just how 
far he might have gone if she had not managed to maneuver
  him out of the house. Recently, Nora had wondered if Violet Devon's pessimistic view of 
the outside world and of all other people was accurate; though
  it was the primary view that Nora, herself, had been taught, she had the nagging 
suspicion that it might be twisted, even sick. But now she had encountered Art Streck, 
and he seemed to be ample proof of Violet's contentions, proof that interacting too much 
with the outside world was dangerous.
  But after a while, when her sketch was half finished, Nora began to think that she had 
misinterpreted everything Streck had said and done. Surely he could not have been making 
sexual advances toward her. Not toward her.