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  “Well, I invited us,” McGlenlevie admitted. “I wanted Sarah to meet my new fiancée.”

  Now that had to take the prize for insensitivity, thought Elena.

  “But it was Sarah who insisted we come to dinner.”

  “And then she exploded the snail with the blender? While making hollandaise sauce?”

  “From a mix,” Sarah added.

  Elena waved them all to chairs and took one herself. Five hours past the end of her shift, dead on her feet, and she was stuck with three lunatics and a giggling campus cop — for Pollock was at it again. Elena gave him a hard look. Wacky as this whole thing was, she no longer believed that Frank had set her up with an elaborate post-marital joke. Beltran aside, Frank wasn’t innovative enough to think this one up. I’m getting paranoid about Frank, she realized uneasily.

  “So your contention is that your ex-wife exploded the snail by making hollandaise sauce? Is that right?” Elena took out a notebook. Maybe she could send the story in to Reader’s Digest.

  “How the hell do I know what she was making?” said McGlenlevie peevishly.

  “Hollandaise,” confirmed his ex-wife. “You can check that out if you like, Detective.”

  “She’s an electrical engineer. Can you think of anyone better qualified to make hollandaise sauce and kill me at the same time?”

  “Do you have some reason to believe that your ex-wife would want to kill you, Mr. McGlenlevie?” Elena asked.

  “Who can understand the nature of woman?” said the poet, and he rose, flinging both arms out dramatically. His voice dropped from a rather nasal mid-range to a powerful boom. “Women are mysterious creatures.”

  Oh, right, thought Elena. How had Sarah Tolland, who seemed the most normal of the three, got herself married to this jerk? “We usually hope for a more concrete motive, Mr. McGlenlevie, at least if the case goes to trial.”

  “Jealousy,” said the poet. “She was always jealous. And she’s probably still irritated about the divorce.”

  “You surprise me, Gus,” said Sarah Tolland. “Didn’t you tell me yourself that we had a friendly divorce?”

  Elena noticed a certain dryness in the professor’s voice and glanced at her sharply. “Is that the way you view the divorce, Dr. Tolland?”

  “She resented my coaching the girls’ intramural volleyball team,” said Gus.

  “How could I resent that,” murmured the alleged exploding-snail perpetrator, “when the team provided the inspiration for a book of poetry that went to three printings?”

  “True,” Gus agreed.

  Erotica in Reeboks? Had he been fooling around with the whole team while Sarah was home making hollandaise? Elena could see that it might be tempting to explode a snail in the face of a man like McGlenlevie, but would a jury buy it?

  “You definitely resented all my pretty little poetesses calling the house, Sarah,” said McGlenlevie angrily. “You never passed on the messages, and then you gave away the answering machine and got an unlisted number.”

  “Just trying to protect your writing time, Gus. I’m sure Winnie — “

  “Bimmie,” corrected the vegetarian fiancée.

  “ — Bimmie will want to do the same.”

  So he had been unfaithful with female students as well as female athletes, not to mention wanting to introduce his fiancée to his ex-wife. Sarah Tolland certainly had a motive, and she had created an opportunity by inviting him to dinner, which left the M.O. Could you kill a man with an exploding snail — or even injure him seriously? And how would you go about it?

  Elena rose from the comfortable tobacco-brown silk chair and wandered through the dining room into the kitchen. According to the poet, Sarah Tolland had turned the blender on just before the explosion. Well, that must be the blender in question. Beside it, neatly folded, lay a no-nonsense canvas apron. Had Sarah Tolland protected her fine rose suit with that apron, then removed and folded it neatly while howls of outrage were issuing from her bespattered ex-husband? Elena grinned at the picture that brought to mind, and inspected the blender. It looked innocuous enough, didn’t seem to have any suspicious attachments.

  She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was in the dining room, drew on gloves, then threw the blender switch. It burst into whining life. No explosion followed. She turned the machine off, lifted the lid from the container, and sampled the contents. Something lemony. Unfortunately, Elena had never tasted hollandaise. In Chimayo, New Mexico, no one served hollandaise. It probably wouldn’t go well with frijoles. She replaced the lid and removed the container in order to examine the bottom of the base, which appeared to be innocent of any sinister tampering. Could it be rigged to explode a snail shell? If that were possible, a doctor of electrical engineering might well be the person to do it.

  Should she send for an Identification and Records team to gather evidence? Would she be able to get one before tomorrow morning? Elena abandoned the blender and returned to the dining room to examine the scene of the crime — or non-crime. Nice teakwood dining set, she noted. Sarah Tolland had good taste — in clothes and furniture, if not in men. “Which shell exploded?”

  “There — that one,” cried McGlenlevie, jumping up to poke his finger at one of the six little compartments in the white china plate that had been his.

  Elena marveled that anyone would own individual snail plates. Did Sarah Tolland have a full set of twelve? There were only three on the table. Had they been some oddball wedding present, the kind the bride would have returned if she could? Or maybe they matched Sarah’s china. Amazing! Elena had six place settings of stoneware, no snail plates included. She studied the plate. Five shells intact; one in pieces. Five compartments swimming in garlic butter; one nearly empty, no doubt because its butter was now spattered on the dinner guests. She leaned forward for a closer look. Half submerged in the remaining butter lay a shred of purplish-brown stuff. She picked up a miniature fork, no doubt made specifically for dragging snails out of shells, and nudged the shred.

  “Snail,” said Sarah Tolland.

  Elena nodded.

  “She turned on that blender and ka-boom — shell fragments flying everywhere,” said McGlenlevie. “It was terrifying.”

  Shell fragments? He made it sound like a World War II movie on late-night TV. Frank had been addicted to that bloodthirsty garbage. Evidently no one had ever told him that war was hell. He’d liked the army, and he loved the war on drugs.

  “Look here.” Gus pointed to a small cut on his cheek. “I’m lucky I didn’t lose an eye, and we were both scalded by hot garlic butter.”

  Scalded by hot butter — that rang a bell.

  “I offered you antiseptic burn cream,” Sarah reminded him. Then she smiled at Elena, a tolerant adult dealing with hysterical children.

  “What good will burn cream do me?” Bimmie whimpered. “I probably need plastic surgery.”

  Elena examined the three red splotches on the girl’s face. “First degree,” she judged. The injuries, if you could call them that, were definitely minor.

  “Is that bad?” asked Bimmie anxiously. “Will I be scarred?”

  “You’ll be as good as new in a week,” Elena assured her.

  “She will not. Whose side are you on, anyway?” Gus ruffled his red beard, scowling. “An attempt has been made on my life. I’m a respected poet. My following . . . ”

  Elena stopped listening because she had finally remembered about exploding snails. “Mr. McGlenlevie, snails have been known to blow up on their own,” she pointed out. “I read in the newspaper a year or so ago about some fellow at a restaurant who got burned when an exploding snail spewed hot garlic butter in his face.”

  Had Sarah got the idea from the news report and manufactured her own exploding snail, Elena wondered, or was she just lucky? Either way, Elena didn’t think the D.A. would want to prosecute. Howl with laughter, yes. Prosecute, no. Especially with a victim like Angus McGlenlevie in his Poets-Do-It-In-Iambic-Pentameter sweat shirt. Thank God she
hadn’t sent for I.D. & R. She’d never have lived that down.

  Elena tucked her notebook into her heavy leather shoulder bag. “I don’t have enough evidence to make an arrest, Mr. McGlenlevie. Officer Pollock, maybe you could see Mr. McGlenlevie and Ms. Kowolski to their car.”

  “Gus lives upstairs,” said Bimmie.

  “That’s it?” McGlenlevie’s face went redder than his beard. “She tries to murder me, and all you do is see me to my car?”

  “Well, no, Mr. McGlenlevie, not if you don’t have one.”

  The poet slapped his chest and proclaimed in sepulchral tones, “Let us weep for civilization, which is, alas, in the final, tragic stages of decay.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Elena frowned at him, having been taken by surprise a second time when his voice suddenly changed timbre and tone.

  “What could be more self-evident,” he continued, “when our very bards and prophets can be victimized by malicious technocrats?”

  Sarah Tolland responded with a clear-eyed smile, obviously unimpressed by the performance. Angus McGlenlevie dropped his arms and glowered at her. “You may expect to see yourself the subject of a satiric verse in my next volume, Sarah.” With that threat, his fiancée in tow, and Officer Pollock snickering along behind, McGlenlevie stalked out.

  Elena turned to Dr. Tolland. “How did you happen to marry him?” she asked curiously.

  “Just one of those mistakes people make when civilization is in the final, tragic stages of decay,” said Sarah.

  “Uh-huh.” Elena grinned. “And how did you manage to explode that snail shell?” Although she knew she couldn’t make a case against Sarah Tolland — unless, of course, Sarah confessed — Elena had just the tiniest niggling suspicion that she might have been investigating an assault — or something. She’d like to know what. Dr. Tolland just laughed and relaxed into a chair, her long legs crossed comfortably at the ankle.

  If the woman had actually tried to blow up her ex-husband, then Elena felt an obligation to head off any further attempts. “Look, Dr. Tolland, maybe you ought to consider therapy. Divorce can be traumatic. No one knows that better than I.”

  “Oh? Are you divorced, Detective?”

  “Recently divorced, and I belong to a very good support group.” If she could get Sarah Tolland into the group, she could keep an eye on her, keep her from exploding any more snail shells in her husband’s vicinity, if that’s what she had done. And get to know her, as well. Aside from having married an irritating man, something that could happen to any woman, Professor Tolland seemed an interesting person. “I’d be glad to take you along to the next session.” Elena debated the second part of her invitation, expecting a turndown. Still, why not ask? “We could have a bite before the meeting if you’re interested.”

  “I’d like that.” Sarah Tolland smiled.

  Pleased, Elena smiled back. “I’ll give you a call.”

  Three

  * * *

  Friday, March 27, 9:45 P.M.

  Once she saw through her little round ocean-liner windows that Detective Jarvis had driven away, Sarah strolled over to the dining room table and stared thoughtfully at the purple-brown shred nestled among the shell fragments and congealed butter. How unusually astute of Gus to realize that his exploding snail had not been a natural phenomenon. It hadn’t even been a snail — not that one. Fortunately, snails were much the same color as plastique, a fact of which Detective Jarvis seemed unaware, although the lady had obviously guessed that something was amiss.

  Of course, it hadn’t been an attempted murder, just a little electronic hint to Gus, but it hadn’t gone exactly according to plan. Sarah certainly hadn’t planned to be visited by the police. On the other hand, a partial success was good enough. She had judged the amount of the plastic explosive nicely — no one had been hurt — and she’d accomplished her purpose. Gus was unlikely to suggest any more cozy evenings involving her and his fiancée, his cow-eyed poetesses, or his nubile volleyball players. Sarah had endured quite enough of that kind of thing during their marriage.

  Then she smiled. Detective Jarvis might well turn out to be an interesting acquaintance. Sarah hadn’t met any police persons socially, or even professionally, until tonight. Gathering up the three snail plates, she went into the kitchen to see if her hollandaise was salvageable. Maybe she should have invited the detective to share the rest of the dinner. No, she’d see Elena Jarvis at the therapy group, not that Sarah felt she needed therapy, but she did relish the idea of meeting non-university people for a change. In the meantime, there was the pseudo-snail to dispose of — carefully, very, very carefully.

  Four

  * * *

  Thursday, May 14, 7:30 P.M.

  Lili Bonaventura knocked softly on the door of faculty apartment #407. She was wearing designer jeans, a mesh T-shirt from Rafaela’s of Miami, and her Mafia undies, which Coach Gus had admired on her last visit to his apartment. Her father would have a fit if he ever saw the panties with the embroidered gun pointing at her crotch. Actually her father would have a fit if he knew about Coach Gus.

  Papa was old-fashioned when it came to the Bonaventura women; he believed in virtuous daughters who stayed home with their parents until an acceptable husband, preferably a friend of the family, came along. Her father had considered Lili’s going away to college a revolutionary idea and, with a contingent of bodyguards, had flown to Los Santos to inspect the territory himself. Fortunately for Lili, Giuseppe Bonaventura had been impressed. The Herbert Hobart University campus looked like the historic district of Miami Beach, only better, and the students were filthy rich. The place had class; that’s what Mr. Bonaventura had said to his attorney, Arturo Spengler.

  Lili knocked again. No answer. She grinned and took out her key, anticipating that Coach Gus had thought up some new game. Like the time he hid in the closet wearing only a glow-in-the-dark condom and then fucked her among the coat hangers. Or the time she found him in the bathroom dressed like King Neptune — or so he said. How was she supposed to know that a naked, bearded guy with a pitchfork was dressed up like the king of the sea? Anyway, they’d had a lot of fun playing King Neptune and the Mermaid in his bathtub. Intellectual sex was what she figured she was getting. Gus was a poet — besides being coach of the girl’s volleyball team. She and Gus had been getting it on every two weeks since she made captain.

  Lili closed the door quietly behind her and tiptoed to the coat closet. No one there. Then she glided toward the kitchen. Nothing there but a half bottle of beer on the table. She had saved the bedroom and bath for last, but he wasn’t in the bedroom either. She tiptoed across the carpet, which was green with a black streak of lightning that ended at the bed. The bathroom door stood ajar, so Gus had to be in there, but not playing King Neptune. Coach Gus prided himself on the “fecundity of his imagination.” Lili had had to look up fecundity, figuring it meant something dirty and not wanting to look dumb by not knowing. Gingerly, smiling what Gus called her little-girls-like-to-play smile, she pushed the door open wider and peeked in.

  Then Lili Bonaventura, who knew a thing or two about death, having eavesdropped on her father’s business associates whenever she got the chance, began to scream.

  Five

  * * *

  Thursday, May 14, 7:40 P.M.

  Detectives Elena Jarvis and Leo Weizell were working overtime when they took the call, Elena gladly. They had been going door-to-door on a drive-by shooting and getting nowhere. No one knew anything. No one had seen anything. And they treated Elena like an Anglo cop, although she spoke to them in Spanish — all those women in the public housing project, women working as maids, or sewing at the pants factories for employers who didn’t always pay their wages, or not working at all and living hungry from welfare check to welfare check.