Ten percent of the royalties for I'D KILL FOR THAT will be donated to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation to support breast cancer research.

Thirteen of today's hottest female novelists spice up the whodunit in an unputdownable, rollicking serial novel of murder and mayhem, larceny and love....

By Gayle Lynds, Rita Mae Brown, Marcia Talley, Lisa Gardner, Linda Fairstein, Kay Hooper, Kathy Reichs, Julie Smith, Heather Graham, Jennifer Crusie, Tina Wainscott, Anne Perry, and Katherine Neville.

The Story

Nestled in rolling woodlands just minutes from our nation's capital lies the ritzy, highly secure community of Gryphon Gate. Here the rich and privileged live, work, and play.

Tempers flare, however, when Vanessa Drysdale decides to build Forest Glen, a massive condo development, right next door. The Gryphon Gate town meeting disintegrates into a free-for-all as environmentalists, developers, residents, and the media clash. Then the violence turns ugly—a dead body is found in a sandtrap off the 6th tee.

Called in to head the investigation, Police Captain Diane Robards races against the clock to sort out her allies from her enemies, as together she and an odd-ball cast of unforgettable characters attempt to uncover the juicy secrets behind the serene facade of Gryphon Gate so they can unmask the ruthless killer before it's too late.

Chapter One by Gayle Lynds

Alexandria, Virginia . . . City of cobbled streets and graceful antique door lamps. Of austere Federalist architecture and at least one millionaire per block — guaranteed. Quaint, expensive, highly desirable . . . that was Alexandria. History and the future met in this tony metropolis with a dramatic clash of cymbals and a drum roll . . . or at least that was the way Vanessa Smart-Drysdale imagined it.

Today was lovely, a perfect May afternoon, and Vanessa was determined to not let her worries ruin it for her. With her cell phone in one hand, and a cup of fresh espresso in the other, she walked past her desk and out onto her balcony, where she gazed east across Alexandria’s gabled and pitched roofs, over the silvery expanse of the Potomac River, and onward into the rolling hills of Maryland, where her fortune and revenge lay. It was only a matter of time.

She owned the penthouse condo here, an opulent hideaway high above Alexandria, with hand-knotted Berber rugs, Impressionist paintings, museum-quality antique furniture, and walls of glass that co-opted the blue sky into a priceless backdrop for her pricey decor. The penthouse was also the perfect getaway from Gryphon Gate, where her ex husband was mayor. The selfish fool wanted her to sell her house in Gryphon Gate, but she wouldn’t do it. At least not yet. Her county residency helped legitimatize her as a local developer. He just wanted to get rid of her.

She felt herself grow irritable as she tried to savor the panorama. She sipped her espresso, the rich aroma scenting the spring air. But she hardly noticed it. Instead, as she studied Maryland’s forested countryside in the distance, she found herself imagining murdering the Chesapeake County planning board. The entire board. All of them, even the ones who supported her rezoning request. They were all too damn much trouble. She wanted to slice them, dice them, and asphyxiate them under the mountains of papers her lawyers, engineers, architects, landscapers, and environmentalists had to generate at an appalling — and costly — rate.

Her cell phone rang. With an angry flick of her wrist, she opened it and put it to her ear. "Yes?"

"Vanessa, you bitch."

She smiled. "Yes, Peter. I thought it might be you."

"How could you do this to me!"

"Darling, I didn’t do it. You did. All by yourself, I might add."

"This is extortion!" he complained.

"Well, not really all by yourself," she went on as if he’d said nothing. "Sorry. There was Mignon, too. Silly of me to forget her. I’m sure her husband hasn’t. Such a beautiful body under that ridiculous Burberry trench coat. I hope she didn’t catch cold. Oh, my, I’m wandering off the point. Sorry again. We’re talking about adultery here, of course. Not just hers, but yours. Tsk, tsk. Screwing around with someone-not-your-spouse. Bad boy, Peter. Stupid, too, to both be caught in flagrante delicto. What will your congregation think?"

"Vanessa!"

His voice was a cry of outrage. Then there was a sound in his throat, something between a growl and a choke.

She drank espresso.

At last he managed, "What’s this going to cost me?"

"Relax. You won’t have to murder anyone."

Without another glance at her glorious view, Vanessa Smart-Drysdale turned on her heel and walked back into the condo. Her nerves were on fire. This was dirty work, and part of her hated it. But another part of her felt incredibly alive, excited.

As she realized that, and enjoyed it thoroughly, she caught sight of herself in the decorative mirror at the end of the hall. She looked like her usual self — small, slender, and sophisticated. But now there was more: Her eyes were large and bright, snapping with hot blue light. Two spots of rosy color had appeared on her cheeks. Her chestnut hair — long and casually loose today, because she was working at home — seemed unusually vibrant and glossy. Altogether, she was more than attractive in her black leather trousers and vest. She was appealing, perhaps even magnetic. Not too bad, she told herself modestly, then grinned.

He assured her, "I wouldn’t murder anyone. I couldn’t. I had one little slip, a tiny moment of weakness. As you said yourself, Mignon Gervase is . . . well . . . impossible to ignore." His voice hardened. "And the way you soften me up for whatever you want is to say it’s not murder? I’m shocked, Vanessa. I thought better of you."

She laughed. "Guilt, Peter? How amusing that you’re trying to make me feel guilty." She continued around to her Chippendale desk, sat, put her cup on a hand-painted Delft tile, and leaned back.

He retorted, "How many affairs did you have while you were still married?"

"There’s a big difference. I’m no hypocrite. I never said I was any better than I am. You, however, hold yourself up as a paragon." She was growing angry again. "You could go public about everything. Then we wouldn’t be having this conversation." Of course, if the Rev. Dr. Peter Armbruster let his wife and the world know of his sexual frolic in the woods, he’d lose his place at the helm of the St. Francis of Assisi Interfaith Chapel, the most popular church in ritzy Gryphon Gate. And, considering his wife — the pinch-faced Laura Armbruster — he’d probably lose her, too. On the other hand, that might not be such a bad outcome for him.

He announced firmly, "I want your video of us. I’d like to take away your camcorder, too, but I’m determined to be reasonable about this."

"It’s worse than that," she said cheerfully. "I’ve just upgraded my equipment, and I’m all set to put the video and audio on RealPlayer and post it to the Gryphon Gate website. What that means, of course, is that not only all the 250 homeowners in our little exclusive enclave can watch you and Mignon in living color and hear all your coos and squeals, but anyone who checks out the website can catch the show, too — "

"Stop, Vanessa. Stop!" He groaned loudly. "What exactly do you want from me?"

Without hesitation, she told him, "Your vote on the county planning commission to rezone Forest Glen for greater density. I’ve spent a fortune to develop that land. When the houses are built and the project’s finished, it’ll be a sweeping monument to art and livability, a place that developers from around the world will come to study and copy. It’ll be the best of everything, far better than even Gryphon Gate — "

"And bigger, too," he said bitterly. "A gargantuan sprawl. And right next door. You know I’ve already taken a public stand against it. We need to protect our open space. That’s why the homeowners’ association offered to buy it from you. Forest Glen is bad on every level, from the additional stress on the Chesapeake watershed to increased traffic and pollution. I can’t change my vote. I’ll look like an idiot."

"Well, darling, you are an idiot. Or you’ve been one. Truth in advertising and all that. Be grateful I caught you before you jammed yourself up with a serious zipper problem. Next thing, it’d be cigars."

"Vanessa!" It was a scream.

"Do I have your vote? Or do I send a friendly email to all our friends in Gryphon Gate letting them know about the new addition to the website — "

He interrupted, "I’ll do it, dammit. I’ll vote to rezone your land. But I want all your evidence. Everything."

"Of course. And I’ll throw in a nice cup of espresso, too." The phone on her fax line rang. "I’ve got to go, Reverend Armbruster. It’s been a delight. See you in church."

"When can I come over and get rid of that video?" he demanded.

"Once Forest Glen breaks ground."

"That could be years!"

"Not if you help me." Vanessa hung up and pulled the fax from her machine.

As she read, her throat tightened, and fear made her heart pound like a kettle drum. There was just one sheet of paper, and in the middle were typed four words: I know about Carbury. The meaning was horrifying. She stared, shocked. How could anyone have found out? Then lower down the page: 7:00 P.M., 6th tee, sand trap. Tonight. Come alone.

She looked for a name, a return phone number, anything to indicate who’d sent the fax. But the paper was otherwise completely blank. Her hands trembled as she read the message one last time. Then she checked her watch. It was nearly six o’clock. A murderous rage shook her. There wasn’t much time. She tore the fax into small pieces, grabbed her purse, jumped to her feet, and ran out the door.

###

Born in controversy, Gryphon Gate, Maryland, was an elite community with sky-scraping house prices, tight security, and sentry-guarded kiosks at its three arched entries. Many in Chesapeake County had fought its construction long and intensely, complaining it would denude and blaspheme the bucolic countryside, planting houses where Mother Nature’s towering timber had thrived for millions of years. They were right, and they were wrong.

Nestled in rolling woodlands, Gryphon Gate was now a fait accompli, home to briefcase barons and political pundits, philanthropists and society mavens, and young families boasting large investment portfolios because they’d sold their tech shares before the market went south. The township spread along the banks of the tranquil Truxton River, just minutes from the nation’s capital. Residents here enjoyed the finest of everything — neighborhood clubhouses, hiking and riding trails, a championship golf course, a yacht-filled marina, an interior forest of some twenty-two pristine acres, even a five-star restaurant. Trees were everywhere. So were Southern Living flower gardens, lush shrubbery manicured into topiary shapes, and delightful wildlife, especially deer.

For Antoinette ("Toni") Sinclair, the township was pure magic. A paradise. She, her husband Lincoln, and their daughter Miranda had moved in six years ago. While she vaguely knew all about Gryphon Gate’s contentious history, her fundamental belief in live and let live erased its significance from her mind.

Even more important, she didn’t like to think about the past. It was too painful. Shortly after they’d settled into their wonderful new life here, Lincoln was killed in a terrible accident at his dot.com startup in Alexandria. He’d been wearing his headphones, which were plugged directly into his office TV so he could get the highest quality sound, while he put in thirty vigorous minutes on his Nordictrak, working off the double cheeseburger and fries he'd had for lunch. He was still wearing the headset when he went into his private bathroom to wash up. The headset, which he prized not only for its technical virtues but because it was a birthday gift from his employees, had been made of an experimental polymer. Flexible, light ... who knew it would conduct electricity? Ordinarily, it would not have mattered, except tha the stereo amplifier custom built into the bathroom wall had been faultily wired s , according to the police. So when Lincoln sat on his stainless-steel toilet and plugged himself in , he was electrocuted.

It still brought tears to Toni’s eyes , thinking about Lincoln writhing on the cold ceramic tiles, his heart fibrilating wildly. If only someone had been there to administer CPR. If only she had been there. She’d been devastated to lose him, especially in such a pointless mishap. But then, Lincoln had always been cutting edge, and everything about his work and his business had been the most modern. Why he thought stainless steel toilets were avant garde she had no idea. What an unusual buying choice. But his goofiness was just one more reason she would always love him.

In the long, moist shadows of afternoon, Toni stepped out onto the grass in front of her large colonial-style manse and threw out handfuls of birdseed mixed with corn.

"Miranda, sweetie!" she called as she dug into the Egyptian cotton grainbag. "It’s feeding time. All of the Bambis will be here soon!"

As she tossed out another handful, Toni Sinclair gazed up at the clear afternoon sky, the sun’s warmth on her face. Dressed in her Mephisto loafers, Donna Karan jeans, and open-necked Escada shirt, she felt so completely at home that she could never imagine living anywhere else. She was thirty-two years old, a willowy woman with auburn hair. Her only makeup was lipstick. Natural and unassuming, she reveled in all of the stately homes, the verdant grounds, and the lovely gardens of Gryphon Gate.

As white-tailed deer approached gracefully from neighboring properties up and down the winding street, she sang happily to herself. "Whistle while you work. Ohhhh, whistle while you work. . . ."

Soon Miranda was at her side. "Look, Mommie! Thirty-four deer. More every day. Hurray!"

Toni’s daughter peered around at the grazing animals, her plump little face shining with excitement. A streak of dirt creased her forehead, and twigs stuck to the back of her Sundance Festival T-shirt. She was eight years old, an earnest, freckle-faced, red-headed child who loved nature, M&M’s, and sneakers that lit up when she walked.

"Yes, sweetie. We’re popular," her mother assured her proudly.

The deer — all females, many with fawns, circled the thick lawn, their velvet muzzles delicately vacuuming up every morsel of food. Toni Sinclair had begun feeding them just three days ago, because, unfortunately, not everyone in Gryphon Gate had her tolerant attitude about life. Some time ago, a noisy group of residents had formed to complain about the deer: They were a traffic hazard. They crapped on the golf greens. They ate the flowers and the very costly shrubbery.

Then last week, the group decided they should "harvest" the animals. That’s when Toni went into shock. They were planning to hire sharpshooters to kill the defenseless deer. Which completely and irrevocably broke her live-and-let-live code.

She’d put her mind to the problem, finally deciding that all of the troubles arose because the deer were hungry. Which meant the solution was simple: She’d feed them, and they’d stay off the streets and quit rummaging for meals on other people’s estates.

Miranda chirped, "May I have some, Mommie? Please?"

"You bet."

Toni opened the bag, and Miranda dove in with both hands, her short, freckled arms disappearing. She emerged with a triumphant smile and threw the seed and grain in a long arc.

As the deer moved quickly to sweep it up, Toni heard a car on the quiet street. She stared. It was one of the official white–and–periwinkle-blue BMWs that the Gryphon Gate police drove. On each side was painted a proud gryphon — half eagle and half lion. Beneath was written Gryphon Gate Police Department.

Little Miranda gave a shiver. "We like the police, don’t we?" She slipped her hand inside Toni’s.

"You bet," Toni Sinclair said again.

But this time her voice was less assured. The car stopped at the curb in front of her elegant colonial, and two grim-faced policemen in full riot gear jumped out and ran toward Toni and Miranda, their guns flopping against their pant legs as they clamped the grips to their belts.

Miranda stepped back, and so did Toni, feeling a moment of intimidation.

"Stop!" ordered the first policeman. He had a square jaw and a face shaved so smooth that the pink skin glowed. He turned his head, his reflecting sunglasses surveying the lawn and the deer as if they constituted a crime scene. On the collar of his flak vest was embroidered a name: Leland Ford.

"We’ve stopped moving, Officer Ford," Toni told him. "See?"

"We’re not moving at all, are we, Mommie?" Miranda asked. She clutched Toni’s hand tighter.

Toni gave the small hand a reassuring squeeze. "What can we do for you, officers?"

The second policeman also wore reflecting sunglasses. He was shorter, about Toni’s height, with thick shoulders and splayed feet. The name on his vest was John D. Carnegie.

Both men’s heads rotated like lighthouse beacons.

"I count thirty-four," said Officer Carnegie. "Hell, she’s got a friggin’ zoo here."

"We may have to arrest you, ma’am," Officer Ford informed her soberly. "You’re harboring deer. You’ll have to come down to the station house with us."

"Shouldn’t we read her rights to her first?" asked Carnegie. He was the younger of the two.

"We have to wait until we officially arrest her," Ford informed him.

At that moment, it seemed to Toni that her heart stopped beating. She gave a little gasp. "Arrest me? For harboring deer?" She gulped. "But how can I ‘harbor’ them? They’re wild animals. I can’t control them. No one can control them. That’s the problem!"

"Your yard’s full of ‘em, ma’am," Ford said loudly. "You’re feeding them," he accused.

The deer had been watching the new human arrivals suspiciously. With Ford’s raised voice, they began to move away.

"That’s just seed and corn!" Toni said indignantly. "I could tell the deer not to eat the birdseed, but you just can’t convince them. Besides, they’re hungry. Look at them. Would you deny a starving animal? The Nazis did that. Surely you’re not that heartless."

"Mommie?" Miranda studied the policemen’s forbidding expressions. When she looked up at her mother, her petite face had gone white, and her freckles stood out like black polka dots. "If they take you to jail, will I ever see you again?"

"Shame on you," she scolded the men. "Scaring a little girl. And you’re scaring the deer, too. Look, they’re leaving. They’re your only witnesses, and if they won’t talk to me, they certainly won’t talk to you."

"Ma’am!" Carnegie exploded, exasperated. "Did you deliberately feed those deer?" He looked around quickly. All of them had vanished.

Toni lifted her chin stubbornly and put the grainbag behind her back. "I take the fifth. You really should learn to be more flexible, you know."

The officers exchanged a long look. Then they gazed up the brick driveway to where Bertha and Bill, Toni’s household help, had come out to watch. Up and down the leafy street, other residents and their servants were beginning to appear, too.

All of this unsettled both policemen. Gryphon Park was supposed to be an easy gig. Usually, the only arrest each month was of that wacko Roman Gervase, who was convinced he was a werewolf. When the moon was full, he’d rip off his tuxedo and howl, and all of the phone lines at the station would light up like a Christmas tree. Of course, there were also occasional drunken parties here and there, celebrating deals and retirements and divorces. But a polite police visit was usually enough to send everyone indoors where heavily insulated walls contained the disturbing good cheer. There were smaller problems, too, that required simple warnings . . . broken golf clubs that sailed through the air when a particularly easy putt was missed, the infrequent disagreement about reservation times at the bridge tournaments, that sort of thing.

However, arresting a mother on her front yard with her minor daughter for a witness, on a charge of feeding "starving" animals that had already dispersed could explode into something far larger. Neither policeman wanted to be caught in the cross fire. Not in Gryphon Gate, where the residents had all the wealth, education, and savvy in the world to back up any crazy notion.

"You know, ma’am," Carnegie told her, mustering as much authority as he could, considering the situation, "the new antifeeding ordinance is serious. Next time, we’ll definitely have to arrest you." His expression was glum.

"We can’t let you off a second time," Ford agreed. He shook his head, unhappy. "You look like a nice lady. Can’t you find some other hobby?"

Toni Sinclair was insulted. "Life isn’t a hobby! Come to the town meeting tomorrow night, and you’ll see how serious this is!" She looked down at her daughter. "Let’s go, Miranda. We’ll make some phone calls to the other mommies."

"What for?" Miranda wondered as she skipped along at her mother’s side. They were headed up the drive toward the house.

"A candlelight vigil," Toni explained, thinking rapidly. "We’ll hold a candlelight vigil for the deer at the meeting. We’ll buy tall, white candles and notify all the newspaper, radio, and TV newscasters. Would you like to be on TV, sweetie?"

"Ohhhh, Mommie!" Miranda said, excited. "We’ll be stars!"

Ahead of them, Bertha waved a sheet of paper at Toni. She was a heavy-set woman with a kind, soft face, wearing her usual black house dress with white apron and white lace collar. "Mrs. Sinclair," she called. "You have a fax."

Toni took the single sheet of paper and sent Miranda into the house with Bertha and Bill, chuckling about the poor policemen, although she felt a wee bit sorry for them. They’d looked so dejected when they’d driven off.

As she strolled toward the side door, she read the fax. And stopped cold in the driveway, horrified. It was impossible! No one knew. No one! Sweat broke out on her forehead, and her chest tightened with terror. She stared at the words in the middle of the page: I know about Salinger. Then she forced herself to read the rest of the message. 7:00 P.M., 6th tee, sand trap. Tonight. Come alone.

She gazed at the message longer, still not quite believing. Her breath emerged in panicked little pants. She looked at her Rolex wristwatch. It was after six o’clock. Thank God she didn’t have long to wait. She forced herself to walk calmly into the house, rending the fax into smaller and smaller pieces.

###

Jerrold ("Jerry") Linch lived in the rarified world of the DOW and the NASDAQ, of short calls and stock puts, of electronic trading that could break the heart or make a fortune in the flash of a keyboard stroke. For years, he’d thrived. An investment banker during the go-go 1990s, he’d retired to Gryphon Gate to use his fat portfolio as a launching pad for even greater wealth. At first, all of his plans had succeeded.

His French Renaissance chalet was enormous, one of the largest properties in the township, with eight bedrooms and twelve baths, plus maid’s and nanny’s quarters, a media room, a two-lane bowling alley, and a swimming pool with a retractable roof. He and his wife, Renée, were the proud parents of their first baby, a green-eyed little charmer named Samantha. He was crazy about those unusual green eyes. He not only had all the accouterments and toys of the genteel suburban fast lane, on one side of him lived a curvy German duchess (very blond; he wondered whether she was blond all over), on the other side was the estate of the renowned U.S. ambassador to Great Britain, and across the street stood the mansion of one of the world’s most prominent rock stars — rich, drugged out, with gorgeous babes always in tow. No one missed the neighborhood barbecues, especially Jerry.

At one time, he’d had it all. But now he was two months behind on his mortgage. Just a moment ago, he’d lost the final $100,000 in his bank account. He’d borrowed on everything, and there was nowhere else to go. He was only fifty virile years old, but he was finished. It was enough to make a grown man shed a tear, and as he sat there behind his top-of-the-line IBM computer, staring at his flat screen, which showed the commodity transaction that had finally wiped his portfolio clean, he considered it.

He remembered an old Wall Street joke: "Now I’m in real trouble. First the laundry called to say they’d lost my shirt, then my broker called to tell me the same thing." With electronic trading made easy, he had managed financial ruin entirely on his own.

He swore loudly and picked up the telephone. There was that mysterious little click again. It was so quiet that he usually didn’t hear it, but right now, in his sensitive state, the sound rang loudly in his ear. He’d have Renée get the phone repair people in. He cursed again and punched the extension to the maid’s room.

"Hullo?" she answered.

His voice was husky and full of need. "Come down here, Anka."

They made love on his massive desk. Right on the leather-trimmed, merlot-red blotter. In the initial throes of her gratitude, Anka knocked the phone off its hook, but Jerry was busy and ignored it. He breathed heavily, devouring the sight of her beneath him as he pumped more and more quickly. He liked her silky unblemished skin, her rounded thighs, her long, exposed throat, her lavish breasts, but most of all, he prized her sharp little cries of ecstasy when he came. With a shudder, he exploded, arching his head back, his privates pushed deep into her. With satisfaction, he listened to her appreciation.

When he opened his eyes, he looked down. Instantly, she smiled.

"That’s better," he decided.

He rolled off, sweaty, his pants around his ankles. He pulled them up. Suddenly, he had a renewed fondness for life. He liked his dark walnut moldings, the Venetian crystal lamps, his hand-made walnut desk, and his black leather sofa and two matching side chairs that formed a conversation grouping across the room. Right now, his office seemed particularly masculine. He even liked the plantation shutters that lined the big bay window that overlooked his back acreage. He decided he must be feeling a sort of paternal acceptance of this wayward world.

"Would you like a cigarette?" Anka asked as she sat up and reached for her clothes. She was a leggy brunette, with thick black eyelashes and full, pouty lips that he had to admit were a big turn-on. She was dressing quickly.

"Smoking again, Anka?" He tucked in his shirt and zipped up his pants. He might be fifty, but he could still knock one off as good as the next guy. Better, if Anka’s response was accurate evidence, and he was sure it was. "You’ve gotta quit hurting your lungs like that," he advised. "Respect your body and your mind. That’s what I always say. Your individuality. Your importance as a person. You hear me, Anka? I’m just telling you this for your own good."

"Yah," she agreed. "Would you like a cigarette, too, Jerry?"

Just then, his fax machine rang. He glanced at it. "Might as well. Leave me one. Scoot on out of here now. You can smoke yours up in your room. Just keep the door closed. Otherwise, Renée’ll be pissed." He gestured at the fax machine, where a sheet of paper was feeding into the tray. "Might be a big business opportunity." He prized optimism. Next to money, optimism was the largest source of wealth.

"Right, Jerry. Thanks a lot. You’re the best." She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"You’re welcome. Where’s my cigarette?"

She produced it from a pocket in her skirt, slid out the doorway, and the door closed quietly behind her.

He was alone again. He sighed with satisfaction. Smoothing back his hair, he hurried to the fax machine. The transmission had ended. But there was only one piece of paper, which was disturbing. Good faxes . . . the one’s that meant potential deals . . . came with cover sheets. If this were just a cover sheet, what the hell use was that?

He snapped it up. As he read, his face turned tomato red, and he could feel his blood pressure shoot through his skull. For a moment, he was paralyzed by abject terror. He read through a second time: I know about Roach. Then: 7:00 P.M., 6th tee, sand trap. Tonight. Come alone.

"Who in hell’s been digging into my past?" he complained aloud.

He was outraged and horrified and frightened, all at the same time. He stared at the polished brass captain’s clock on his desk, which had cost five hundred dollars and kept perfect time. It was nearly six-thirty. He dropped the fax into his electric shredder and watched until its destruction was complete. That’s when he noticed that his phone was off the hook. He replaced it and ran for the door, lighting the cigarette. He was going to get to that damn meeting early and case it all out.

###

At exactly 6:55 P.M., Toni Sinclair drove her champagne-colored Mercedes SUV toward Gryphon Gate’s championship golf course. As was her habit, she would be exactly on time. She was still dressed in her jeans and shirt, but she’d replaced her loafers with her Nike running shoes. They were just a precaution, she told herself soberly. She’d left little Miranda at home with Bertha, who was feeding her a nice meal of hot wings, arugula salad, and homemade, multi-grain bread. Miranda was fond of hot wings, which she claimed were among Britney Spears’s favorite foods.

As she drove into the golf club’s parking lot, Toni worried again about what awaited her at the sand pit near the sixth tee. Her throat tightened.

Pine trees and decorative granite boulders lined the parking area. At this hour, dusk was spreading, casting a gentle lavender light across the beautiful tree-dotted golf course that rolled out in three directions. The hour was sufficiently late that even the most addicted duffers were leaving for stiff drinks and fine dinners at homes or in clubs. In fact, she passed several of them in their cars and on their bicycles, speeding out of the lot.

One was Vanessa Smart-Drysdale, who was in her usual red Corvette. Toni waved at her. Vanessa didn’t spend all that much time at Gryphon Gate these days, but then that wasn’t unexpected. Between her divorce from Henry Drysdale and that ambitious development she wanted to build next door, Vanessa didn’t have all that many friends these days in the community.

When Vanessa finally noticed her and waved back, Toni gave her a genuine smile. She liked Vanessa. She was spunky, although right now she looked distracted and worried. No doubt due to all the problems with rezoning Forest Glen.

And there was that strange Mr. Lynch — Jerry Lynch, a handsome fellow who used to be some kind of hot-shot international financier. He was racing away, too, in a predatory-looking Humvee. Toni wondered whether he had agoraphobia, because she seldom saw him. He seemed to stay holed up in that elegant French chateau of his, although she’d heard that he regularly attended the local social gatherings that all the neighborhoods in Gryphon Gate held. She’d spot his wife, Renée, much more frequently, mostly at the pediatrician. They had a darling baby girl with the same color of jade-green eyes as the Upshaw twins and the Anderson boys. When she’d told Bertha what she’d noticed about the eyes of all those children, Bertha had laughed and said it must be the Gryphon Gate water.

Thinking about the pleasures of ordinary, worry-free conversation brought back Toni’s troubles in a rush. Her mouth dry, her brow furrowed, she parked, grabbed her shoulder bag, and headed around the clubhouse and out onto the putting greens. The place was deserted. She didn’t play much golf, but Lincoln had. Sometimes she’d gone with him, so she had a good idea where the sixth tee was.

She checked her watch. Two minutes until seven. She pressed her hand against her chest and felt her heart hammer. She tried not to think about what she was facing.

There was a foursome in the distance, over near where the eighteenth tee was. She broke into a lope across the greens, heading in the opposite direction. The pungent scent of pine was heavy in the air, and a twilight breeze was rising. Tree shadows were long and black and chilly. Everywhere she looked, she felt uneasy. Who would be waiting for her? What would they want?

Maybe she should’ve phoned Sigmond Vormeister. He might know. He was a Ph.D. sociologist and was secretly studying the residents of Gryphon Gate for some kind of exposé book he wanted to write. She knew that only because he’d gotten tipsy at one of their neighborhood parties and confided it as sort of a lame apology after he’d tried to grab her butt and she’d stomped his wingtips hard.

She had her checkbook with her. The only thing that made sense was that the person who sent her the fax intended to blackmail her. One of the sweetest things about Lincoln had been that he’d planned wisely and left her filthy rich. Still, an insightful part of her knew it was unlikely she could ever pay enough. Once anyone allowed themselves to be blackmailed, there’d be no end to it. After all, decent people didn’t go digging into things that were none of their business. Decent people didn’t threaten to reveal other people’s secrets. Decent people didn’t blackmail. Whoever was waiting for her was an awful, despicable person, more to be pitied than feared.

Nevertheless, she was scared. She clamped her teeth together to keep them from chattering. As she caught sight of the sixth tee, she slowed, and a family of deer stepped quietly from a stand of willows. A creek ran through the willows, and their black noses glistened in the waning light. They’d been drinking from the creek. They were sleek and velvety and looked friendly. She wanted to stop. Maybe they’d let her pet them.

But there was no time. Regretfully, she loped past, searching the shadows ahead for whoever was waiting. No one was standing at the tee. She stopped on the springy grass, peered all around, scrutinizing. No one.

She headed for the sand trap, which was about twenty feet away. It lay in a shallow hollow, and if anyone were standing next to it, she’d easily spot them. There were no trees or bushes around there either, which meant there were no shadows for her to fear. Heart thudding, she closed in . . . and stopped abruptly. Someone was lying in the sand. There was still enough light to tell it was the back of a man, and he was wearing a rumpled suit. There was something vaguely familiar about him —

"Are you all right?" she called.

There was no answer.

She raised her voice. "Hey! Are you okay?"

There was neither answer nor movement. In fact, now that she studied him, his face seemed to be straight down in the sand. No way could he breathe. She dashed to his side, fell to her knees, and rolled him over. And stared. It was Sigmond Vormeister, the sociologist, his broad face twisted in fright. There was a gash on his forehead. Blood, with a generous dusting of sand, coated his face.

"Oh, poor Dr. Vormeister!"

She put her ear against his chest, hoping his heart was still beating. But there was only silence. "Oh, my God!" She pulled her cell phone from her purse and hit the buttons for 911. Shuddering, she looked around. She had a horrible, sinking feeling. . . . Why were hers the only footprints in the sand?