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much. I went to the window. Outside the hotel, a sheik deboarded from
     a stretch limousine. All that white hurt my eyes. “How about staying in Washington a few days instead of going to New York?”
    “Don’t tell me you hooked up with that marine at the White House!”
    On the pavement, three veiled women followed their leader into the hotel. I wondered if they fought for his attention or jeered
     at him behind his back. “There are a couple new exhibitions in town.”
    “I suppose I could do some research at the Library of Congress.” Duncan speared a sausage. “Meet Justine for lunch. She’d
     be delighted if I changed my mind.”
    “Cortot invited you out?”
    “For God’s sake! Am I a leper?”
    Not completely. Duncan was just a fidgety old maid whose idea of an orgasm was playing Chopin’s
Minute Waltz
in fifty-eight seconds. What could Justine possibly want with him? “She’s probably tired of senators,” I said. “Wants to
     try her luck with a piano player.”
    “Aren’t you catty this morning! Justine’s a lovely girl.”
    “Girl? She’s ten years older than you. And she’s a politician. Don’t ever forget it.”
    “I’m forty-one! I’ll forget what I like!”
    Give up, Frost. I returned to the table. Duncan had left me five prunes. “Great weather. Maybe I’ll rent a Harley for the
     afternoon.”
    “Eh? I thought you wanted to see some exhibitions.”
    A knock interrupted further pleasantries. In the hallway stood a porter burdened with deep purple orchids. He smiled, my pulse
     tottered: just a few hours ago I had seen an identical arrangement in Barnard’s apartment. As the fellow sashayed to a sideboard,
     Duncan snatched the envelope. Intercepting notes on my bouquets was one of his professional duties, right up there with frowning
     at my apparel and passing judgment on my boyfriends.
    “Orchids,” he sniffed with the usual disdain. “How decadent. ‘
A cliff-banging performance.’”
Tossed the card away. “Who’s your admirer this time?”
    “No idea.”
    I spent the afternoon riding through the Virginia hills, inhaling the first delicate scents of autumn, wondering who could
     have seen me dangling from Barnard’s balcony last night. Duncan was half ah hour late for our rehearsal at five. He played
     beautifully, mysteriously, like someone in love. Neither of us mentioned his lunch with Justine.

Chapter Two
    T HE DOORMAN BEAMED as I left the hotel: I was in silk and diamonds again. No violin tonight, though. Just a little of Barnard’s blood in my
     purse. “Cab, Miss Frost?”
    “Thank you.” Heat rose from the asphalt, pressed down from the clouds, wilting humans in a moist, invisible sandwich. “Ford’s
     Theatre, please,” I told the driver.
    “I won’t be able to drop you outside,” he said, pulling onto Pennsylvania Avenue.
    “Why not?”
    “Bomb threats. We’re supposed to avoid the area.”
    Great. As predicted, traffic stalled five blocks from destination. I joined those abandoning their vehicles and walked the
     rest of the way to Tenth Street, wondering why Barnard had bought a thousand-buck ticket to an outdated play. Maybe someone
     else had blown the grand for the opportunity to sit next to her. Blind date? I was suddenly nervous, unprepared to step into
     her shoes. Totally unprepared to swallow a tampon. However, curious little gambler that I am, I crossed the police line outside
     Ford’s Theatre. Sailed by the metal detector in the foyer as an attendant fished through the pile of platinum I had dropped
     onto his plate. “Enjoy the show,” was all he said.
    Ford’s Theatre looked much the way it had in April 1865, when Lincoln had taken a bullet in the head. Heavy green curtains
     framed a modest stage; the audience sat on barely cushioned chairs. Slender beams supported two shallow balconies. Despite
     the crowd and the lights, my heart skipped upon entering this place: it felt the residual evil lurking here. I walked quickly