"I asked you to keep your ears open, not to cozy up with one of my suspects."

"Trying to keep a hysterical woman lucid isn't particularly cozy." He blew out a breath. "I could use a very large brandy."

"Well, go home and have one. I don't know how long I'll be."

"I believe I can find what I need here."

"Just go home," she said again. "There's nothing for you to do here."

"As I'm not one of your suspects," he added in a quiet voice, "and I own this theater, I believe I can come and go as I please."

He ran a finger down her cheek and strolled off.

"You always do," she muttered, then went back into the dressing room.

It seemed to Eve that dressing room was a lowly term for a space so large, so lush. A long, cream-toned counter held a forest of pots, tubes, wands, bottles, all arranged with soldierly precision. Over it all gleamed a wide triple mirror ringed with slim white lights.

There was the daybed, several cozy chairs, a full-sized AutoChef and friggie unit, a trim, mini-communication system. Wardrobe hung in a long closet area, open now so that Eve noted the costumes and street clothes were as precisely arranged as the makeup.

On every table, in groupings on the floor, were flowers. The over-fragranced air made Eve think of weddings. And funerals.

"Thank you. Thank you so much." Areena shivered slightly as Mira helped her into a long white robe. "I don't know how much longer I could have stood… I'd like to clean off my makeup." Her hand reached for her throat. "I'd like to feel like myself."

"Go ahead." Eve made herself comfortable in one of the chairs. "This interview will be recorded. Do you understand?"

"I don't understand anything." With a sigh, Areena sat on the padded stool in front of her makeup mirror. "My mind seems numb, as if everything's happening one step after it should be."