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the manner. That is, the picture and those notes don’t mean much in themselves. But after two of them, a pattern is being established. The problem is, nobody can really know much of anything until whoever is doing this acts out.”
    â€œYou mean shows up with a butcher knife and starts hacking?” inquired Judith.
    Bill nodded. “That’s right. You’ve got some highly strung people staying here, I gather from Renie. Especially Mario Pacetti. This could merely be an attempt to upset him, throw him off his game, so to speak. It could be a rival, a spurned woman, a musician he insulted. You’re dealing with artistic temperament. It’s hard to say.”
    Renie made a little huffing noise. “The artistic temperament has nothing to do with graphics. Whoever drew that might as well have done it with his lips. Or hers.”
    â€œI mean musical temperament,” said Bill, still earnest. He looked at the digital clock on the dashboard. “Where’s Joe? It’s almost nine-thirty. We could run into traffic…”
    Joe was coming out of the house at a jog. He threw his cases into the Chevrolet’s trunk, slammed the lid, then grabbed Judith’s arm. “Let’s go. Those screwballs can fend for themselves.”
    â€œBut…” protested Judith.
    Joe opened the door and practically shoved Judith into the backseat. “I told them you were going to be gone for an hour or two. I put Dippy or Drippy or Tippy or whatever her name is in charge. If that bimbo can’t pour a cup of coffee, she might as well resign from the human race. Let’s hit it, Mr. Jones. We’re out of here.”
    Bill did, and they were.

FIVE
    R ENIE TALKED J UDITH into stopping for an early lunch at a restaurant en route from the airport. The New Orleans flight had taken off almost half an hour late and by the time the cousins left the terminal, it was approaching eleven-thirty. Judith had protested that she should go straight home, but Renie was adamant.
    â€œI haven’t heard hide nor hair of you since Thursday,” said Renie after they gave their order to an oval-faced Filipino waitress. “Now fill me in on what’s been happening with the Pacetti crew.”
    Judith did. Renie listened, her brown eyes wide. “Wow,” she breathed at last, “no wonder you’ve been busy! Where are they all going today?”
    Judith dashed a little salt and pepper over her shrimp Caesar salad. “Pacetti is resting for tonight’s performance. Mrs. Pacetti is watching him rest. Plunkett—and I suppose Tippy—are doing something at the opera house, probably regarding Pacetti’s contract or whatever. Schutzendorf said he was going to the zoo.”
    â€œA good place for him,” remarked Renie, bolting down a large mouthful of French bread. “Maybe they’ll keep him. Did you say he was Emil Fischer’s nephew?”
    Judith grimaced at Renie. “Great-nephew, I think. You know who he is?”
    â€œSure,” Renie replied. “Very famous, turn-of-the-century German opera singer.”
    â€œHmmmm.” Judith fingered her chin. “Is that right?”
    â€œOf course it’s right. Look it up in your biographical dictionary.” Renie sounded vaguely irked that Judith would question her knowledge about anything operatic. But soothed as always by food, she shelved her sudden pique. “So you never found out who the white negligee belonged to?”
    Judith shook her head. “Both Tippy and Amina deny it was theirs. It wouldn’t fit Schutzendorf, and somehow I can’t see the other two…” She gave Renie a wry look as her voice trailed off.
    â€œYou never know,” said Renie, munching on a fat french fry. “I suppose it could have blown over from one of the neighbors’.”
    â€œNot Arlene’s style,” said Judith. “Jeanne Ericson wears T-shirts to bed. And Mrs. Dooley is