The photographs occupied virtually every inch of space that wasn’t being taken up by organic matter. There were photos on the walls, on the coffee table, on several little side tables that seemed to exist for the purpose, and on the television set.

Most of the photos were pictures of Hope with people. Some were celebrities-I recognized Sinatra, Tony Bennett, and Wayne Newton-and some of them seemed to be entertainers whose names had never made it above the title. Judging from their placement it didn’t seem to make any difference to Hope-the famous and anonymous were comingled in this gallery of show biz friendships.

I even spotted a couple of pictures of Natty. He was younger then, but had the same sparkling eyes and narrow-mouth smile, especially as he had his arm draped over the broad shoulder of a younger Hope White wearing a chorus girl outfit. Her long legs and ample bosom were on professional display but her eyes were all her own. Cornflower blue, sparkling and smart.

My earlier opinion had been dead on: Hope White had been something then, and she was something now.

“Would you like a drink, dearie?” she asked.

“Do you have any hemlock?”

She thought about it.

“No,” she said, “but I have Haig amp;Haig.”

Soothing as it might have been to sit in that hothouse and get pleasantly stewed, I still had a job to do: find Nathan Silverstein and get him back to Palm Desert.

“A Coke, please?”

“One Coke,” she said brightly, “coming up!”

“How long have you known Nathan?!” I could hear her in the kitchen messing around with an ice cube tray.

“A long time!”

“Did you date him?”

“Honey, I carbon-dated him,” Hope said as she came in with the Coke, which was in one of those old soda fountain glasses. She had a martini for herself.